


Things and Comforts

by Sarai



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Asylums, Canon Compliant, Child Abuse, General tomfoolery, M/M, Post-Book 2: Crooked Kingdom, Wylan and Marya have a lot to deal with but I'll mark triggers as best I can, jesper's relentless flirting, there's nice stuff too though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2019-11-04 03:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 126,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17890643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarai/pseuds/Sarai
Summary: Everything is over and nothing is normal.Wylan should be delighted. He can live a comfortable life now, no longer afraid of his father. He can bring his mother home. He can spend the rest of his life making payments on that steep fee of Jesper's. (He hopes he can spend the rest of his life making payments on that steep fee of Jesper's.)Instead the return to Geldstraat brings new challenges. It's not Kaz or Jan calling the shots anymore, it's Wylan, and he'll need to decide if he's equal to the challenge of managing his father's empire, caring for the remains of his family, and becoming one of the few good men in Ketterdam.





	1. Chapter 1

The first night in the house on Geldstraat, Wylan had asked that rooms be made up for his guests. When the others had turned in, he took a spare blanket and curled up in the music room. It didn’t feel right to sleep here as a guest, but he didn’t feel that he was a resident, either.  
  
His bedroom remade into a nursery made that much very clear.  
  
This being his house now, he might have slept in the master bedroom, but he wasn’t going to throw Alys out of it. She had chosen to leave her own room for his last night; apparently it made her feel closer to Jan. (Who would want to, Wylan thought bitterly, but said nothing.) She would be gone to the countryside by tomorrow afternoon, but still Wylan had no intention of sleeping there. It was his mother’s. It would be ready for her when she returned.  
  
Besides, the settee was soft.  
  
The next morning, he folded up the blanket and went for a walk through the house. Before, he knew it in terms of the best places to hide, thought of it, perhaps, as a criminal, before he truly knew how criminals thought. Now he counted the rooms, considered the sheer size of the place.  
  
He found himself, at the last, standing outside his father’s office. He had been in here before. Recently. But it was different without Kaz.  
  
Wylan took a breath and stepped into the office.  
  
It was just an office. Ornate, lavish, but just an office.  
  
An office with a huge hole in the floor and the rug and the safe… with the same chairs and desk Wylan had seen all his life.  
  
Jan Van Eck was a man of extreme vices, but he was not without his virtues. He was diligent. Growing up, Wylan often saw his father here.  
  
He made his way back behind the desk. The windows behind it would cast sunlight over the desk for most of the day. He rested his hands on the back of the chair.  
  
When Wylan was small, when Jan was different, he loved this office. He loved the office because he loved his papa. It smelled the same, the same wax, same inks. Wylan remembered when he was three or four, when he could climb onto his papa’s lap when he worked. He didn’t understand the papers were supposed to mean anything—he was too small for that. They were just Papa’s work, so they were important, like Papa was.  
  
Wylan looked away from the desk, blinking rapidly. It was so bright in here, light stinging his eyes.  
  
He looked across the desk to where he would have stood when he was older. When he was ten, twelve. Jan liked to have him read—try to read—at the same time, once a week. Like clockwork. Wylan knew what to expect, there was no reason for his lack of preparation. (As he was told several times.) He couldn’t and knew he would never be able to, but he was there, every time, nonetheless.  
  
He remembered the first time he saw an unexpected figure in the room. He remembered thinking the man’s boots were dirty and Father didn’t like that, anyone tracking muck into his office. _Perhaps you simply need a better incentive. This is for you, Wylan, you know this world holds nothing for you if you cannot learn your letters._ It was something Wylan found reassuring about Kaz. If Dirtyhands wanted him thrashed, he would do it himself. He lied and he tricked but he was honest with his fists. Kaz Brekker had never threatened to have someone _else_ cut out Wylan’s tongue and feed it to a stray cat.  
  
He remembered looking at the page, trying to make sense of it. Looking back to his father and shaking his head. He remembered the look of resignation, like Jan had been forced into this, as he motioned the man forward. Never did the rough work himself.  
  
Wylan flinched. He took his hands off the chair. The memories landed like blows now. He remembered the sounds, the pain. He remembered the steel in his father’s eyes reminding him he had no one to blame but himself.  
  
“Wylan.”  
  
He jerked his head up, forcing his focus into the here and now.  
  
“Good morning, Inej. How are you feeling?”  
  
“I’m healing,” she said.  
  
Wylan nodded. He understood: she was hurting, but it was a better hurt.  
  
“I helped,” he blurted. When she gave him a curious look, he explained, “At the Ice Court, I helped. And the Wyvil—it would have worked. The fireworks.”  
  
“I know that,” Inej said. Her words moved like she did, soft and sinuous.  
  
He looked away from her, to a spot of the floor that still had floor. It was stupid, looking for a pat on the head. Her role in all of this had been a huge one. Wylan was incidental. He made toys. Besides—no mourners, no funerals, and certainly no fanfare.  
  
He thought about what he had said when it seemed Kaz might think about leaving Inej. _She’s one of us_. It hadn’t seemed to carry the weight he imagined it would, that fact, and maybe he had still been thinking too much that life was like stories and daydreams.  
  
“It’s just—I admire you. You’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need.”  
  
Inej tilted her head to the side and smiled a secret smile.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Not only now, but always. Whenever your adventures bring you to Ketterdam.”  
  
“ _Here_ you are!” Jesper stood in the doorway. “I was starting to think I’d have to eat breakfast with Alys.”  
  
“She’s not so bad,” Wylan objected. “She’s just silly.”  
  
Inej looked away in a manner that, rather than being proper silence, spoke volumes.  
  
“Let’s take the long route,” Wylan said, glancing at the hole in the floor. He knew Inej would dance through it, and Jesper could get through with style to spare, but the fall had hurt quite enough the first time. Today, Wylan at least would use the stairs.  
  
He didn’t try to convince anyone, just walked out of the room and hoped they would come with him. They did.  
  
“Good, you’re both coming. I would have felt guilty eating your breakfasts. You both look like your weight doubles when you fall in the canal. I would have eaten them, I just would have felt bad.”  
  
“When did they marry, Wylan?” Inej asked.  
  
“About a year ago. Alys has always been kind to me. She’s tried to be my friend. In her own way.”  
  
“Tried?” Now Jesper was interested.  
  
“It’s not that I don’t _know_ she’s silly,” Wylan said. “But we have things in common. We both like music, and animals. Even if she does have miserable taste in animals. We talked about music and her birds… Alys always assumes people are good. The silliness helps.”  
  
It was difficult to be truly friends with someone who lived in another world.  
  
“What exactly did she think was going on here?” Inej asked.  
  
There was more than one way to steal a man’s secrets. She had seen Wylan in the office. She had experienced his father’s hospitality. Wylan knew he didn’t have to say it for Inej to know.  
  
“She… thought I was naughty. My father told her that, so she believed it. She thought I would learn,” he added, not sure what this demonstrated. At least _someone_ had believed he was capable of learning. “She would bring me a cup of tea and a biscuit sometimes, after he…. She said she knew I would learn not to make him so cross.”  
  
“Wow,” Jesper said. “What kind of delusion must a person be under to believe something like that? I mean—Wylan, being naughty.”  
  
“Hey!” Wylan objected.  
  
Inej was grinning. “I can’t imagine it. Can you, Jesper?”  
  
“I made bombs,” Wylan said, “and auric acid.”  
  
“I can’t,” Jesper told Inej, “even my credulity is strained.”  
  
“I’m good at demo!”  
  
Jesper grabbed him in a half-hug and kissed his cheek.  
  
Apparently that was how things would be now.  
  
Wylan hoped that was how things would be now.  
  
“You’re better at hostage,” he said.  
  
Wylan was torn. Their glee was infectious, but that didn’t stop him resenting it—he was _not_ incapable of naughtiness! He was a criminal and everything! He had been a useful member of the crew!—with the added challenge of the sheer joy Jesper seemed to physically radiate. Being close to him was its own magic.  
  
And maybe, just maybe, Jesper needed to be close to someone right now. Maybe he was missing his da and needed someone to be beside him.  
  
Wylan settled for laughing. “I’m great at hostage.”  
  
As it turned out, having a hole in one's dining room ceiling was less of a problem when one had dozens of other rooms. They did sit down to breakfast with Alys, who wished everyone a polite good morning. If she was keener to see her stepson than anyone else, no one held that against her—Wylan was familiar.   
  
“What do you study?” Alys asked Inej and Jesper.  
  
Maybe she would have preferred to talk to Wylan, but he was gulping down bites of bread and cheese so quickly his cheeks were puffed like a squirrel’s. He didn’t realize he was doing it until Inej gave his cup of coffee a subtle nudge.  
  
“Study?” Jesper repeated.  
  
“In Belendt. You’re Wylan’s schoolmates, aren’t you?” she asked.  
  
Wylan nearly coughed up his coffee. He hadn’t thought to come up with a convincing story. Of course Alys made the completely logical assumption…  
  
“I study dance,” Inej said, a perfectly reasonable claim for someone with her fluid movement and impeccable posture.  
  
“That must be nice,” Alys said. “Do they feed you very well there? I could… speak to Jan, when all of this business is over.”  
  
It took Wylan a second to realize she meant him. She meant the way he was wolfing down every crumb of food he could like someone was going to take it away. He was touched she noticed and forced himself to swallow his food and take another sip of coffee like he had any manners to speak of.  
  
He _did._  
  
Jesper came to his rescue: “They feed us plenty. Wylan here is just forgetting his manners. You know he can be terribly naughty.”  
  
This time he did hack up his coffee.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he said, dabbing at his hands with a napkin and wishing his voice didn’t squeak. Wishing Jesper had the decency to love this slightly _less_.  
  
“There’s a trunk of your old clothes in the attic,” Alys said. Apparently she had noticed the coffee drops landing on his trousers—or possibly the fact he was still wearing yesterday’s blood-splattered shirt.  
  
“Father kept my things?”  
  
“It was my idea.” Alys was very pleased with herself. “I knew you would be home for the holidays, and there was no need for you to travel with so much. It can be inconvenient to travel. When he sent most of it to Belendt, we kept a trunk here.”  
  
“Alys… thank you.”  
  
She might have been foolish to think Jan wanted and would permit Wylan to ever return then, she might have been foolish to think Jan would ever return now, she might have been naive to overlook what was happening right under her nose, but in her own way, she cared.  
  
After breakfast was eaten, Wylan caught the look on the cook’s face as she realized how it would be different feeding two teenage boys and one Inej; he caught, to his surprise, Jesper leaping to gather the dishes. It seemed quite a lot had changed.  
  
He made his way up to the attic and located the trunk with his old clothes. First things were first, he needed something to change into. Since there was no point in doing that with his body filthier than Jesper’s mind, he took a change of clothes, shut himself in the bathroom, and ran a bath. It wasn’t something he would have casually done in the Barrel—because baths cost money he didn’t have, and because he had never really felt comfortable in the washtub at the boarding house with its non-locking door. He remembered being repulsed by the reek of himself, until he stopped noticing it.  
  
This wasn’t something he would have casually done _here_ before, either. Even though it was ridiculously easy, literally a matter of turning the taps, before, a servant would have run the bath water. It was stupid now. Embarrassing. But before it was just how things were.  
  
He sank gratefully into the hot water. It was too hot (was there a wrong way to run a bath? He sensed perhaps there was…) and stung against his bruises, but the pain faded and left him feeling at ease.  
  
Jesper was right—Wylan wasn’t a criminal by any means. He had known it his first night: he didn’t have what it took to survive in the Barrel. Without Kaz, he would have died. But Wylan had still done some good demo. He knew that. He wasn’t _useless_. He wasn’t _helpless._  
  
He was, however, surrounded by things he had done nothing to earn but be born into the right family.  
  
It started with his mother. When she was home—that was the first thing Wylan needed to do. But once she was here, once he became not only Wylan but the heir to the Van Eck empire, he promised himself he would find a way to make good. He would find a way to deserve everything he had.  
  
Even if it did start with the thing he spent years fighting: washing behind his ears. Why that was such a point of contention, Wylan didn’t know, but he preferred not to admit how old he had been before the nanny stopped checking. He still refused to believe washing behind the ears was _that_ important, but he did it anyway.  
  
His clothes were far too big. He had never been a particularly large boy, but now his shirt was ridiculous. The shoulders hung too low, the cuffs brushed the second knuckle. His trousers wouldn’t stay up. He had the same old belt he had cut extra notches into, but even with careful folds, there were places the wool simply gave up and sagged, letting the leather of his belt rub uncomfortably against his skin. He tucked his shirt in, but that made the ill-fittingness all too obvious.  
  
New clothes were definitely on the to-do list. He couldn’t be taken seriously at the Exchange looking like this.  
  
In the meanwhile, he headed back to the attic to scrounge up a sweater or coat to hide the worst of it. He had things to do that were more important than a well-cut suit.


	2. A Trip to Olendaal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: asylum, use of restraints on an institutionalized individual

Jesper and Inej had offered to go with him, but Wylan refused their offers. He needed to do this alone, he said. Well—mercher alone. Mercher alone meant he had hired a wagon to take him up Saint Hilde. Mercher alone meant being surrounded by people you weren’t supposed to care about. Besides, he suspected neither Jesper or Inej wanted to be along for the first part of the trip.  
  
Alys alternately sang and chattered. It took fairly little energy to keep her company, but a good deal of patience.  
  
“Do you want to divorce him?” Wylan asked. “He might never be released.” _Ghezen willing._  
  
He knew how sound carried over the water, but there was no one nearby to hear them. Windmills and sheep would keep their conversation private—and if the answer was _yes_ , soon enough it would be no secret. Alys’s maid had kept her share of secrets already.  
  
“That’s for Mother and Father to decide,” Alys replied.  
  
Wylan nodded, struck once more by how unsettling it was his father had married Alys. For all his failings, Jan had likely not taken physical advantage of her. There was a reason Alys slept in a separate room; Wylan remembered his parents sharing a bed. Jan had simply used her to make a new heir, but that was the purpose of marriage from a contractual standpoint. Hadn’t it bothered him? Hadn’t he felt the wrongness of coupling with a woman barely out of girlhood?  
  
Grabbing Wylan’s hand now, she said, “Whatever happens, this is still your brother or sister.”  
  
He thought about how she had first described the baby. _We'll have a new friend to play with._ He didn’t know what sort of mother Alys would make, but she cared about her child playing. He thought about the nursery. His father… _their_ father had only seen a new heir. He wondered if his brother or sister would have ever seen the kind side of Jan. Would they have been allowed to play, or be silly?  
  
Wylan squeezed Alys’s hand. “Yes,” he agreed.  
  
“You could visit. That would be lovely, if you visited.”  
  
At least she seemed to be accepting that this was long-term, but he wondered if Alys had fully thought that through. Wylan knew of and did not object to her relationship with Mister Bajan. Presumably they intended to carry on now. They should—they seemed to care for one another. Already he was planning how to act on that visit. Pretending ignorance or pretending surprise? He supposed he had a while to choose. It was strange, but—he knew he must set the terms. Alys hadn’t the ability and Mister Bajan had been in his father’s employ. Neither of them would feel on comfortable enough footing.  
  
Once Alys and her maid were settled at the lake house, Wylan returned to the boat.  
  
He had one more stop to make before home.

* * *

  
  
Wylan knew what to expect this time. That did not stop his heart hammering all the way up the long drive. He remembered, last time, collapsing here in the middle of the road, sobbing. He remembered how much it had torn at him to know what his deficiency did to his mother.  
  
No longer blaming himself, Wylan nonetheless felt that sickness all over again.  
  
It wasn’t his fault.  
  
_It wasn_ _’t his fault._  
  
But that didn’t change facts.  
  
Jan Van Eck alone bore responsibility for what happened to Marya. Seven years she had suffered here. Seven years of who knew what had been done to her. Wylan didn’t blame himself, but he couldn’t know about his mother’s suffering and not ache for her.  
  
Wylan hopped down from the cart, reflecting that he had a very well-jogged liver by now.  
  
He did not have a straggly bouquet. He had an envelope, and his flute because he knew she liked music and there wasn’t much of it here. There would be music when she came home. He had been ashamed to realize how little he recalled about his mother, could not think of what colors she liked, if he ought to ask specifically that the blue sheet be stretched over the mattress, or if she had any favorite sweets to be sure were in the pantry or… or anything. 

 _I’ll make up for it,_ he promised her silently.  
  
He walked up the low stone steps and rang the bell, and wasted no time when he was shown into the parlor—though he did, vaguely, recall the wildflowers he left desperate and broken on the desk last time.  
  
“My name is Wylan Van Eck,” he informed the cheerful nurse who greeted him. They did have a lot of cheerful, well-intentioned people here. “Marya Hendricks is my mother and I’ve come to take her home.”  
  
“Oh,” the nurse said. Clearly she had not been expecting this. “I’ll—I’ll need to ask the administrator. It’s not often we have a patient leave like this and your mother isn’t well.”  
  
_You made her unwell._  
  
“I’ll care for her,” Wylan said. He wasn’t sure what he had expected. Perhaps that they would see that same sweet nurse Jesper had charmed last time.  
  
Maybe he should have taken Jesper or Inej up on their offers. What if they needed him to read something? His shoulders began to curl, but Wylan caught himself. He took a breath and straightened. He might not look like much. His clothes might be ill-fitting and wrinkled, and there were still bruises on his face. But he was here. And he wasn’t leaving without her.  
  
He knew what the administrator saw: a child. Someone too young to understand what he was doing. Even after Wylan produced the transfer of authority, the man couldn’t hide his reservations.  
  
“Now, young Mister Van Eck, are you quite aware of your mother’s condition?”  
  
“No,” Wylan admitted, “I’m not. Any information you can provide would be useful in caring for her at home.” _Where she belongs,_ he added silently.  
  
He knew the administrator was trying to scare him, frighten Wylan into realizing he wasn’t equal to this task. Marya Hendricks, the man explained, was sometimes calm but prone to violent outbursts from time to time. It was common in victims of hysteria and paranoia.  
  
Wylan listened. He nodded. He didn’t say—of course she was prone to violent outbursts. It was how he had known she was still herself, that soft insistence that her name was _Marya Van Eck_. Her small resistance. His mother had clung to what she could against the people who tried to take it from her, albeit meaning to help. Wylan clung to his determination but he couldn’t deny the clear good intentions of the asylum staff.  
  
When the man had finished, Wylan said, “Thank you. Would it be possible for me to wait with her while her things are packed?”  
  
It was not a discussion, he meant to clarify: she was coming home today.  
  
Nevertheless, he found himself talked around until he agreed to see her before making a final decision. He couldn’t very well explain he had already seen her just days ago. _Last time I was a Shu boy._ That seemed like a great way to get himself a room here as well.  
  
At least now, Wylan knew what to expect. It didn’t stop his nerves. Last time, she seemed… did she remember him? Know him, somehow? Would she know him now?  
  
“I’m afraid it’s not one of her better days,” the nurse told Wylan. Not Betje, the one who had been charmed by Jesper’s smile. (Wylan could scarcely blame her. Jesper’s smile was difficult to resist.)  
  
“What does that mean?” Wylan asked. “Where are we going?”  
  
“We’re going to her room. This might not be the best day to bring her home. If you can come back, maybe give her time to adjust to the idea…”  
  
He shook his head. “She’s coming home today.”  
  
Why wasn’t she painting in the sunlight? She had looked worn out, but not entirely miserable there.  
  
Wylan thought of the days he hadn’t wanted to leave his bed, the days in the Barrel he was too scared to leave the room. His heart seized to think of his mama like that, sitting on her bed, frightened that Jan’s men were here to hurt her.  
  
They hadn’t, though. They hadn’t hurt her. Right?  
  
“Here we are,” the nurse chirped. She unlocked the door and held it open.  
  
Everything inside Wylan leapt, but his skin was frozen still as stone.  
  
“Mister Van Eck,” the nurse told him gently, “you can come back another day. She does have bad days, sometimes.”  
  
If this had been the Marya he found when he first visited, Wylan didn’t know if he could have left. Jesper might have had to haul him bodily from the asylum. And then he would have gone back to Ketterdam, aimed a pistol at his father’s forehead, and probably been killed by the stadwatch before he could pull the trigger.  
  
Marya glared at them with raw hatred. Wylan had imagined her frozen in fear. It wasn’t fear that restrained her: it was leather straps. Her wrists and ankles were wrapped in soft cotton to protect her skin, but she was unmistakably tied down.  
  
“Why would you do this to her?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Mister Van Eck—”  
  
“Don’t call me that!”  
  
He was Wylan Van Eck, but right now he preferred to be Wylan Hendricks. He preferred to forget the name Van Eck.  
  
Hearing it was enough to make Marya jolt. The bed smashed hard against the floor.  
  
“You’re here to kill me!”  
  
“No,” Wylan said. “No, I’m not.”  
  
He stepped into the room and pulled a chair close to the bed.  
  
“I promise I’m not.”  
  
Marya yanked at the restraints.  
  
“It’s all right,” Wylan said.  
  
This wasn’t what he had pictured. This wasn’t the woman he thought he was bringing home. Somehow, he imagined… he didn’t know.  
  
He reached for the restraint.  
  
“I’m going to untie this now.”  
  
It wasn’t a tie. It was a buckle. Did that matter? He wasn’t sure what mattered. He felt like he had fallen asleep and this—it was a dream. It was just a bad dream.  
  
The moment the buckle loosened, her fingers latched around his wrist, so tight he felt a jolt of fear shoot through him and had to remind himself, _this is my mother_.  
  
“He sent you!”  
  
“He didn’t,” Wylan said. “He didn’t. I’m—I’m Wylan.”  
  
“That’s my son’s name.”  
  
“Yes. I am your son. I’m your son Wylan Van Eck. They call me Wylan Hendricks sometimes.” His friends called him a lot of things. “I used your name when I ran away.”  
  
On reflection, that had probably made it easier for his father to find him.  
  
“Wylan.”  
  
He nodded. “Yes. I… brought… I brought my flute. Would you like me to play something?”  
  
“What are you doing here?”  
  
“I came for you. I came to bring you home.”  
  
The promise was supposed to help. He thought she would like that, to come back to her rightful home, live with her family. There would be some awkwardness, he imagined, if she recognized Jesper, but at the moment he wasn’t sure that was a risk.  
  
Instead she yanked her hand away and slapped him.  
  
Wylan could only stare. She had _never_ slapped him. She had never so much as smacked his backside when he was a child. He wanted it to be an accident, but he knew it wasn’t. Maybe she didn’t believe he was who he said he was. Maybe she thought—  
  
Maybe she thought what he had thought.  
  
Wylan remembered how he used to feel the chilling fear when someone looked too long at him. He remembered ducking his head and hurrying around the corner as quickly as possible, whether or not he needed to turn. Attention might have meant someone his father sent to finish what they started that day on the boat.  
  
“Get out!” Marya shouted. “Get out! Go back to Jan, tell him I believed your lies! You’re not my son! You are not my son! You are not my son!” Well—she shouted that, and a few more colorful words as well.  
  
Wylan was too startled to resist when he was pushed out of the room, watching and wishing he could stop watching as his mother’s hand was once more restrained. Part of him respected the way she kept fighting. Even half-gone, she was still holding on—but what to? He had thought… maybe he thought he could heal her.  
  
“Stop,” he said, softly, not sure if he wanted Marya to stop shouting at him or the rather less cheerful of the asylum’s employees to stop holding her down. He saw that she was violent, but they were hurting her. She was scared. Louder, “Stop! You’re hurting her!”  
  
“Mister Van Eck—”  
  
“LEAVE HER ALONE!”  
  
“Mister Van Eck!”  
  
The nurse pulled him back from the door. Wylan no longer saw his mother, but he heard the sounds. She was still fighting a losing battle.  
  
He looked into the nurse’s eyes. Angry as he wanted to stay, Wylan saw that the young woman truly felt for him now. She visibly cared. The people looking after his mother, in general, wanted to help her, they just didn’t understand.  
  
He felt his lip quiver and forced it to stop.  
  
“She’s my mother.”  
  
“I understand,” the nurse said. “She’s not well, Mister Van Eck—”  
  
“Please call me Wylan.”  
  
He couldn’t hear that name anymore.  
  
“Wylan, your mother is sick. She still loves you, but sometimes other thoughts make her forget that.”  
  
Wylan nodded. He wanted to believe that. Would anyone really say different, though? Would any nurse tell a patient’s teenage son— _she’s beyond even knowing who you are?_  
  
He took a breath. Again. He wished Jesper were here and immediately felt guilty for wishing that. Jesper had known what to do last time, but Wylan needed to learn to stand for himself. It wasn’t fair to Jesper to expect him to negotiate these situations, or to be the shoulder Wylan constantly leaned on.  
  
“How… how long…?”  
  
“The past couple of days have been difficult ones, but it’s not always this way.”  
  
Wylan nodded again. He liked nodding right now; he was grateful for nodding. It gave him time to put the anger inside him into words.  
  
“Your father sent a couple of clerks to visit with her and it was very taxing for Marya. She can’t answer too many complicated questions. Her mind isn’t what it was.”  
  
He tried to make sense of all of those words. He tried and he failed. All he heard was that she had been this way after he and Jesper visited.  
  
Then he heard his father’s voice.  
  
_Moron. Disgrace. Fool._  
  
_Traitor._  
  
_You stay away from her._  
  
_You’ll destroy everything._  
  
He had. His father meant his merchant empire, but Wylan barely cared about that—hadn’t, at the time. Though he hadn’t destroyed it, he had destroyed the person who mattered most to him. She had been vulnerable; he had seen it. Why hadn’t he been more careful? Why hadn’t he… why… he didn’t know. What to do, what he should have done.  
  
The corridor seemed to lurch. Wylan placed one palm against the wall for a sense of steadiness, only a glimmer. His stomach and lungs followed the lurching. Wylan could take a lot. He had learned to take sharp words from Kaz without looking away. He had learned to take a beating from whichever goons his father had on hand, and he had learned from his friends to take it without breaking until he needed to for their scheme to work.  
  
He didn’t know if he could take this. He didn’t know if he could bear losing her again.  
  
_Wy, listen to me. You have to pull yourself together._  
  
Jesper’s directive from their last visit cut through the swirl of panic in his head. He was right. Wylan focused on the floor. He focused on breathing, on pulling air into his lungs, forcing it out.  
  
After a few moments, he was able to focus on the nurse again. She still looked sympathetic, but it was a measured sympathy. Wylan wondered, if he couldn’t pull himself together, would he become a patient here himself? He couldn’t allow that to happen. Everything everyone had done to put him here would fall apart if Wylan appeared insane now.  
  
“I apologize,” he told the nurse, his voice thin, “seeing my mother that way—I find myself rather shaken.”  
  
The measure on her sympathy broke, a flood of relief that she was talking to a sensible person.  
  
“That’s quite understandable. It can be a shock.”  
  
“I’d like to visit again tomorrow. Unless that would be detrimental to her health?”  
  
“It’s good for our patients to have visitors. We’ll look forward your return. It’s very good of you to come and see her.”


	3. Jesper's Day

They took care of the Transfer of Authority after breakfast, and as far as reading went, it was light work. Jesper read the same words he’d read in the asylum, the words Wylan had recited in the Church of Barter. There was more, of course. Details. Worship. Ghezen and his works and so on—as far as gods went, Jesper thought, Ghezen was a dull one. At least Djel had a magic tree. He might not believe the Saints were more than powerful zowa, but they had some good stories behind them!  
  
There was a letter along with the legal papers from Jellen Radmakker. He sent his best wishes after the unpleasantness—“You merch types aren’t prone to overstatement”—and requesting that a time be set for him to visit.  
  
“What do you think he wants?”  
  
“That’s all it says.”  
  
Wylan nodded thoughtfully. “In the Church, he seemed genuinely bothered by my father’s behavior. Maybe he just felt an obligation to speak on behalf of the Council?”  
  
“Maybe,” Jesper said. He didn’t know. “We used to visit in Novyi Zem when someone lost a loved one. Paying respects.” It was traditional to bring food, but since Jesper did the cooking at home and didn’t have much of a hand for it, he and Colm were likelier to bring sympathy and flowers. “Maybe the same applies to imprisonment?”  
  
“I don’t love him.”  
  
“When Radmakker visits, don’t use that as your opening line.”  
  
“We’ll invite him to visit in three days’ time,” Wylan decided with a veneer of determination on his face not quite veiling his uncertainty. “That should give my mother time to settle in without seeming irresponsible.”  
  
Jesper answered the implied question, “That sounds good, Wy.”  
  
Wylan dictated the letter haltingly. Jesper read it back, and they made changes before finalizing it. And there it was: Wylan and Jesper had written a piece of official correspondence together, and Radmakker was invited to visit the Van Eck mansion in three days. The mansion with the hole in the dining room ceiling. The one inhabited by a wayward son and his inexplicable friends, soon to be joined by a woman returned from the dead.  
  
“It’s official,” Jesper said, “I’m your secretary.”   
  
“Did I agree to that?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”  
  
“I’ll tell you what I’d tell anyone else, speaking as Mister Van Eck’s secretary, this is the official word…”  
  
Jesper didn’t need to finish the sentence because Wylan was snickering too much.  
  
Only when he was done laughing did Jesper tell him, grinning, “You’re a proper mercher now, beautiful.”  
  
He was so cute when he blushed.  
  
“Do you inherit his seat on the Merchant Council?” Jesper asked.  
  
“I’m not of age. They’ll appoint someone to serve in my stead. They could hold a vote of no confidence but it’s unlikely, at least unless I run the empire into the ground.”  
  
Ghezen would frown on that.  
  
Jesper signed Wylan’s name and set the letter aside, giving the ink a moment to dry. In the meantime he fiddled with a stick of sealing wax. Merchants, it seemed, did not simply send a piece of paper. Probably wise.  
  
“They’ll be watching. The Council is always watching their peers, but at my age, they might expect failure, some might hope for it. Dryden in particular—Kaz was right that he hasn’t made good. If I fail, he looks more successful; if I succeed, he looks worse.”  
  
“Aren’t their children your friends?”  
  
Wylan gave him a look. Usually Jesper would like those blue eyes trained on him for several long seconds, but this time it felt like being looked at across a great chasm and he wasn’t sure why.  
  
Then Wylan cleared his throat.  
  
“My father wanted to protect me from anyone learning about—to protect the family, really. Any brothers or sisters or children I had would have been hurt by the damage to our reputation. A merchant family’s reputation—”  
  
Ghezen, Djel, and all the Saints save him from a lecture on a merchant family’s reputation.  
  
“You weren’t allowed to have friends?”  
  
“Well… you must have been a lonely child, too,” Wylan reasoned, “growing up on a farm. How many children lived near you?”  
  
“Half a dozen I saw regularly,” Jesper replied. His da made a point of getting Jesper off the farm often enough, especially after they lost his mother. No, it wasn’t every day, but Colm knew a child needed more company than just his father. He saw to it Jesper had a chance to be a kid. The more he heard about Jan Van Eck, the more fiercely Jesper missed Colm.  
  
Jesper had imagined before what a merchant’s life was like. On some fronts, he hadn’t been wrong. The beds were soft and the food was good, and he had woken up that morning to find his boots had been cleaned. When he was small, he couldn’t have imagined a place like Wylan’s office. It was lavish beyond his wildest imaginings. He also hadn’t imagined the pettiness of merchants and their concerns for reputations. He might have known some stuck-up types back home, but no one who hoped someone else’s farm would fail so theirs looked better.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come to Olendaal?”  
  
Wylan nodded, looking considerably less than sure.   
  
“I have the authority to make this decision,” he told himself as much as Jesper—but Jesper understood. He could charm most people, maybe not into taking broad strokes against their self-interest the way Nina could, but well enough. Wylan was earnest, with a pure heart and the guile of a trout. He needed to learn to deal for himself. What better first round than one he had not only the means but the right to win?  
  
If only that didn’t leave Jesper with a bundle of free time on his hands.  


* * *

  
Keeping horses in Ketterdam was impractical. They weren’t needed. Keeping such creatures was purely a matter of ego and status.  
  
Naturally, Jan Van Eck kept several.  
  
Jesper stepped into Van Eck’s stable and took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of straw blocking the scent of eternal damp. Ketterdam had excitement and energy Jesper liked to throw himself into, but this was more like home. He had lasted all of a heartbeat at university. The only places he had lived were the Barrel and his father’s farm. If he was going to manage to avoid his… vices… something that rang of familiar domesticity helped him believe he just might manage it.  
  
“Good afternoon,” he told one of the horses in a croon usually reserved for his revolvers. “Oh, look at you…”  
  
Of course nothing Jan Van Eck owned would look like a working horse.  
  
Rather—nothing Jan Van Eck had chosen would look like a working horse. Wylan owned them now.  
  
This animal looked like a fancy mercher horse, his mane and tail groomed. His coat had been brushed recently, though he had clearly rolled in the straw since then. Jesper ran a hand along the horse’s side, chattering as he did—he knew better than to get sneaky around a horse. He was bruised enough from the Kherguud. No need to take a hoof to the leg just for fun.  
  
“You’re tall for a horse,” Jesper observed, “do the other horses tell you that? I understand your suffering. They don’t see how inherently glorious we tall types are. There’s so much more of us to love…” His voice trailed off as he noticed something beneath his fingers.   
  
“You seem delightful,” he said, less humor in it, just words as he brushed off a patch of hair.   
  
“You’re a very pretty horse.”  
  
He traced a thin scar with one fingertip.  
  
“Don’t repeat that to Wylan, now,” Jesper continued, recovering his humor. “Any of it! Especially the part about you being a pretty horse. Double especially the part about tall types being better. We _are_ , but a small type wouldn’t understand. Yeah, you’ll keep that between us. Good boy. Good horse.”  
  
Following a hunch, he repeated the same routine with the other horses. They were all similarly groomed, all with similar chestnut coats. It was almost like livery, the way Van Eck had chosen his horses to look like parts of a set. Jesper supposed there was aesthetic appeal to it. If you liked boring.   
  
“Who’s that in here?”  
  
Jesper was half-hidden behind a horse when the call rang out. He took a few steps to reveal himself.   
  
The man standing in the doorway wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Barrel, Jesper thought. He had a kempt but still dirtied appearance—a man who did his reasonable best, but worked with horses and could only be expected so much cleanness. There was a shrewdness in his eyes, though. A hardness.  
  
“You’re one of Mister Wylan’s friends.”  
  
“Jesper Fahey,” he supplied. “And you’re the hostler.”  
  
He nodded. “ _Ja._ It’s time to put them out,” he added, indicating the horses.  
  
“Allow me to help! I grew up on a farm,” Jesper explained. He knew his way around horses. As they took the horses out to their paddock, Jesper struck up a conversation: “Have you worked here long?”  
  
“Nearly twenty years I’ve worked for Mister Van Eck.”  
  
“He’s a good boss?”  
  
“He’s a fair man. You do what he asks of you, he’ll do right by you.”  
  
“It’s a shame what happened to him.”  
  
The hostler gave Jesper a surprised look, then slowly he nodded. “It is.”  
  
Jesper glanced around before he continued, “Wylan is my friend, but he never struck me as much of a businessman.”  
  
The hostler hesitated a moment, then said, “Not for me to say.”  
  
“Go on,” Jesper goaded, grinning. “I mean—a _flautist_.”  
  
“Well—this whole business is going to blow over. All will be set to rights in a matter of weeks, just wait and see if it isn’t.”  
  
Jesper nodded. Seemed reasonable, unless you knew that Kaz Brekker did not leave loose ends.  
  
Free time did not agree with Jesper. Neither did the hostler, though he didn’t know it, and he found a reason to excuse himself soon enough.  
  
Inej and Wylan were both out, which left Jesper to rattle around on his own.   
  
He returned to the office with the hole in the floor. Just for fun, he stuck his head through the hole and peered around upside-down at the dining room. It was all very nice. These were the sorts of rooms a thief would want to pick up and make off with, roll up an entire room and stick it in your pocket.  
  
Then Jesper turned his attention to the desk. He supposed he might as well get started here. He hadn’t the faintest of clues what the Van Eck empire really was or encompassed other than _quite a lot_. He really hadn’t the faintest of clues what a merchant was supposed to do all day. (Probably not what Kaz Brekker’s preferred gunslinger liked to do all day, which was sleep. The world was a good deal more exciting once the sun had set.) If he was going to help Wylan, though, he needed to learn.  
  
Van Eck hadn’t skimped on the chair. Sitting on this thing made Jesper feel like he was pretending to be a king rather than a merchant. He bounced. Very comfortable chair.  
  
Taking a sheaf of papers from a desk drawer, Jesper remembered again seeing the dishes his father had tidied up, remembered what he said about cleaning up after the rowdy group. That wasn’t who Jesper wanted to be anymore, someone who made messes and left other people to clean them up. At least not entirely—technically having servants was a good thing, right? It kept more people working! Industriousness! Ghezen would approve! Smaller domestic messes maybe were okay to create, but the larger ones, those Jesper meant to avoid.  
  
Jesper tapped his fingers on the desk, making a valiant attempt at understanding what he saw. The basic concepts he grasped. Its significance… perhaps not so much. The report covered the weather for the past month in the Southern Colonies—precipitation, humidity, temperature.   
  
Maybe this wasn’t the best approach.  
  
Jesper could read the words. Making sense of them was Wylan’s job.  
  
He nearly vaulted over the desk when he heard something about Wylan from downstairs—a massive hole in the floor did wonders for acoustics. Jesper managed to tuck the papers back into the drawer they had come from. Making use of the accidental passageway, he swung himself from this floor to the next, landed rolling, and recovered his feet. The move left some of his sore places whimpering, but it _had_ been fun.  
  
He could tell himself all he wanted that he was just grateful for a break from the weather, and that he knew Wylan would be with his mother and need to focus his attention there. A part of Jesper knew the truth: he was out of his depth, his hands were getting restless, and Wylan was what was left that made sense.  
  
When he walked through the front door, Jesper felt his expression shift from hopeful to lost, matching the misery on Wylan’s face. Something had gone terribly wrong. _Van Eck had Marya killed_. It seemed the sort of thing he would do.  
  
“Wy?”  
  
“Sh… she had a bad day,” Wylan said. He had been crying. It was in the red rimming his eyes and his rough-edged voice.  
  
Jesper nodded.  
  
_She had a bad day._  
  
Wylan shook his head and came back with a weak smile: “What about you? How was your first day as a mercher?”  
  
“Honestly? Boring. Not much flash to the lifestyle, is there?”  
  
Wylan shook his head again. “There’s not,” he acknowledged, “but it has its advantages. Just wait until the markets open again.”  
  
“I met your horses.”  
  
“That’s strange to think about. My horses.”  
  
“Do you know how to ride?”  
  
“Of course I do.”  
  
Jesper thought about Wylan’s shooting—he had known how to handle a weapon, in an impractical, recreational fashion. He imagined that was how Wylan knew how to ride.  
  
“Met the hostler, too.  
  
There was a moment, then, “Oh.”  
  
Jesper had fallen into step beside Wylan, and realized now they were heading out toward the garden on the canal. “Where are we going?”  
  
“The boathouse.”  
  
“You know what boathouses are good for?”  
  
“Storing boats?”  
  
“Yes. Storing boats. This is my ‘storing boats’ face and my ‘storing boats’ tone.”  
  
Jesper genuinely hadn’t a clue what Wylan wanted in the boathouse—he guessed it was _not_ what he had been implying. Pity. Maybe another time.  
  
The boathouse was plain, but tidy, with a sense of damp on even the dry walls. The doors were locked up for the night, the gondel floating in its berth. The boathouse was practical, with bits and pieces Jesper didn’t recognize but supposed were useful in maintaining boats, everything in its place.  
  
“It must be nice to own a boat.”  
  
“I own a fleet. It’s strange.”  
  
“And horses.”  
  
“And horses,” Wylan agreed.  
  
“This _would_ be a nice place to—”  
  
Inej melted out of the shadows.  
  
Jesper startled and was mildly frustrated to note that Wylan didn’t.   
  
“We thought it was a reasonable cover,” Wylan explained.  
  
“For?”  
  
“Inej?”  
  
“I looked for a contact today, a fabrikator.”  
  
Jesper crossed his arms. “You should have told me.”  
  
He knew he needed to address this. He had accepted—told himself he had accepted—that he was a fabrikator, that denying it only did him harm. He knew he needed to make a plan. In the back of his mind, he appreciated his friends helping him. In the front of his mind, he resented his friends springing this on him.  
  
“I meant to,” Wylan said, reaching up to touch his shoulder. “It wasn’t supposed to be a secret. Inej and I only talked about this earlier and then there was the… emergency… with Alys’s birds.” Traveling with birds was more complicated than they had expected. Or possibly traveling with Alys. “We weren’t going behind your back.”  
  
Jesper wanted to stay frustrated, but the earnest look on Wylan’s face was undeniable. He relented: “How did it go, Inej?”  
  
“She’s gone. I checked others I know and they’ve all gone to ground after the Kherguud and with rumors about _parem_. It’s going to be a challenge finding someone to help you with being Grisha—”  
  
“Zowa,” Jesper interrupted. He accepted that he was a fabrikator, but he was zowa, as his mother had been.  
  
“Zowa,” Inej amended.   
  
He imagined the Wraith knew of several zowa who had been hiding out in Ketterdam. It was a sensible place to disappear—bustling, with a promise of anonymity. But then, with that anonymity came the men and women who dealt in secrets.   
  
“Why are we talking about this in the boathouse? The servants will think we’re—oh.”  
  
Right. Because nothing made better gossip than a tryst. If anyone reached any conclusions, it would be that Jesper and Wylan were sneaking off to have a good time. Inej’s presence was a non-factor. No one would know she had been there. In the longer term they would need a better cover, but it would do, for now.  
  
“The only zowa I know are indentured,” Wylan said. “It wouldn’t be—I’m their… I hold their contracts.”   
  
Now Inej was the one frowning. “You _what_?”  
  
“It’s part of the household, part of my inheritance.”  
  
“Release them from the contracts,” she said. “Help them out of the city.”  
  
“I’ll talk to them—”  
  
“They can’t be honest with you. You own their lives. They’re property to you.”  
  
“How can you say that?”  
  
“You haven’t said anything to them yet, not even thought about them until it might impact Jesper. You called them your _inheritance_.”  
  
“I called the contracts my inheritance. Not all indentures are exploitative,” he said defensively. “Grisha are vulnerable to all sorts of dangers and allying themselves with merchant houses offers a degree of protection—”  
  
“Is that what your father taught you?”  
  
The sting hit home. Wylan lowered his head.   
  
“Enough, Inej,” Jesper said, stepping between them. Indentures were a part of life in Ketterdam. They could debate the harms and merits of the system another time, but Jesper didn’t want to see Inej or Wylan hurt. Hurt more, anyway.  
  
“She’s right,” Wylan muttered.  
  
“Hey, we came here to talk about me,” Jesper objected. “Remember? _Me_?”  
  
“You’re right, too,” Wylan said. “We wanted to talk to you about options for finding a tutor or another way for you to start learning what you’re capable of. Finding fabrikators wasn’t the easiest thing to start with in Ketterdam. With knowledge of _parem_ , it’s—it’ll take time. And we should have included you from the beginning.”  
  
“Well, I for one feel this was a very productive talk,” Jesper said.   
  
“Jes, please think about it.”  
  
Jesper nodded. Then he reached over and tugged Wylan’s shirt askew.  
  
“What—”  
  
“Alibi,” he said, unbuttoning his waistcoat.  
  
“Oh. That’s a good idea.”  
  
“Been known to have those from time to time,” Jesper said. He would have mussed Wylan’s hair, but those silky curls were a mix of permanently mussed and utterly unmussable. “Oh, and you’d better go first.”  
  
Wylan nodded, accepting this like it was an instruction on a job.  
  
As he headed out, Jesper said, “That’s not about the alibi, I want to look at your bottom when you walk away.”  
  
Wylan froze. Jesper could just make out the tops of his ears turning pink.  
  
“Flushed and breathless,” Jesper said. “Perfect.”  
  
“It… _was_ about the alibi?”


	4. Laughter and Breathlessness

The music room was already Jesper’s favorite room. It was the most fun. After Inej drifted off to bed that night, the boys stayed, Wylan showing that if he couldn’t bring himself to sing the naughtier tunes, at least he could play them on the piano.   
  
Jesper had spent the better part of half an hour beside Wylan on the piano bench. Wylan probably didn’t realize he was leaning heavier against Jesper, and that jangling place inside him was quieter with someone to overwhelm his thoughts. Despite the fact it was one of the least appropriate places to sleep, Jesper considered staying here.   
  
He could put his head down on the keyboard and sleep on the piano bench with Wylan’s head pillowed on his lap. That seemed utterly reasonable.  
  
Jesper gave Wylan’s shoulder a small jostle. It was enough to startle him out from half-sleep.  
  
“Sorry,” Wylan said instinctively, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He hadn’t been drooling, but that was good information to store for later. He took an unsteady step off the bench.  
  
“I was going to head up to bed—”  
  
“Of course—”  
  
“If you want to join me.”  
  
Apparently there was no polite response for that, because Wylan’s answer was quiet surprise as his sleepy, mercher-trained brain looked for the right answer. Jesper almost could have been offended.  
  
“I don’t want to lie with you,” Wylan blurted. His face was patchy as he continued, “I-I mean—I do want to lie with you,” and now his entire face was red, “very m—um, not that I would presume to…”  
  
_I knew you were a virgin_. That wasn’t important right now, but Jesper liked knowing he had been right. There was no way Wylan had been caught in a sweaty romp with anyone.  
  
“What I meant was… that…”  
  
Entertaining as this was, if Wylan turned any redder he might pass out—which would solve their problem since Jesper had no doubt he could carry him up to bed, but wasn’t the perfect solution.  
  
Instead, he rested a hand on Wylan’s cheek—he could actually feel the heat of that blush—tilted his face up, and kissed him. It was gentle. It didn’t ask for more.  
  
“I meant _you_ , starlight. Nightshirts and everything. We won’t lie together until you’re ready.” He had intentionally used Wylan’s words, nothing rough from the Barrel or practical from the farm or casual from the entire rest of the world, but it still embarrassed him. So Jesper plunged ahead, “Even though I know you want to. I don’t blame you, I’m not easy to resist. Come on,” he said, slinging an arm around Wylan’s shoulders, “I’ll keep you safe and warm.”  
  
Wylan allowed himself to be led out of the music room as he asked, “Do you keep the revolvers on you when you sleep?”  
  
“Thought about that, have you?”  
  
“No,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper didn’t believe him.  
  
“Did you picture any other clothes?”  
  
“No. I mean, I’ve never pictured it. You.”  
  
He definitely had. Jesper stored that information for later.   
  
Delightfully bashful as it made Wylan, Jesper truly hadn’t been asking for nor offering anything more than company. Not that he would have minded—but, since Wylan didn’t want to, Jesper put the thought aside. He kept his back turned when Wylan changed.  
  
“I don’t mind if you want to look,” Jesper added. Judging from the catch in his breathing, Wylan at the very least took a quick peek.  
  
Wylan’s nightshirt didn’t fit. Like the rest of his clothes, it had belonged to a well-fed son of a merchant house. Now it hung with the neckline askew and showing half his shoulder. Wylan tried folding the cuffs over, but the soft fabric kept falling to cover his hands.  
  
“I looked through the desk today,” Jesper began with a glance at Wylan’s face to gauge how the words landed. He tensed a moment, but only a moment. A flinch held too long. “Why all the weather reports?”  
  
“My father has—I… I have interests in textiles, spices, and grains. The weather reports indicate what to expect. One year there was a drought in Eames Chin. My father put aside funds and we went to Eames Chin to offer loans on farms after the bad harvest. And a year later, after another bad harvest, to call in debts.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“I was only six. I didn’t know what we were doing.”  
  
Jesper did. Jan Van Eck had known men would be desperate. So he went to squeeze them. Probably offered loans against the next year’s crop, knowing if it succeeded he would make money and if it failed he would make more when the farmers couldn’t pay and their livelihood, their children’s inheritance, became part of the Van Eck empire. All the while his profits rose because he already controlled a good portion of the spice trade and prices surge during shortages.  
  
Jesper didn’t know what to say about a rich merchant who could afford the investment using his wealth to take those farmers’ everything. Instead, he asked, “Which side of the bed do you want?”  
  
It was easier not to think about that when he was under the covers with Wylan. There was quite a lot that stopped mattering under those circumstances. With their heads on their respective pillows, Jesper was able to look evenly at Wylan. As luck would have it, his eyes were just as blue from this angle. Lashes weren’t as nice, but you couldn’t have everything.   
  
“Wy.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“What happened at Saint Hilde?”  
  
Wylan blinked quickly. “She was—she didn’t recognize me. They had her tied down.”  
  
_This action will have no echo_. What did the Suli say to tell someone you hurt because they hurt?  
  
Jesper’s eyes flickered to the fresh mark on Wylan’s cheek.  
  
“She didn’t mean it. She’s been in that place too long, she doesn’t know what’s what anymore. I wanted so badly to bring her home. I was going to bring her… I didn’t know. Not where I lived in the Barrel, but—somewhere. Somewhere she could paint and sit at the piano. I thought…”  
  
“It won’t be forever. You could talk to Inej.”  
  
“I won’t put her through remembering that.”  
  
Of course not. Inej might have some insight into Marya’s experiences because she knew what it was like to have your home and freedoms taken, though her experiences had been so much worse. Even for his mother, Wylan wouldn’t cause someone that level of pain of asking them to delve into such memories.   
  
“Besides, she’s already angry with me and for good reason. I didn’t even consider what holding indentures meant for the Grisha. At least most of the servants know me; they barely know who I am. Will you help me find the papers tomorrow? Current contracts ought to be in his office somewhere.”  
  
“I’ll help, but Inej was out of line to say that. It’s only been a day, we both still have bruises from the Church of Barter.” It was a little early to be saying Wylan didn’t care and had fallen into his father’s thinking patterns. Though if he held a Healer’s indenture, they might be useful with the bruises.  
  
“All I thought about was my mother. I didn’t even consider the indentured Grisha. What if he was right? What if I can never grow to be a man? I thought like a son, not a merchant.”  
  
“He wasn’t. No one would fault you for trying to take care of your family.”  
  
“I was wrong. I thought—I thought I would be enough.”  
  
Wylan’s voice cracked on the last sentence, the thing he had been afraid of facing since he left the asylum that afternoon.  
  
“Hey.” Jesper reached for Wylan’s hand. “You are enough.”   
  
Suddenly pink, Wylan whispered his reply: “I could watch you say those words for the rest of my life.”  
  
It was never the wrong time for that!   
  
“You can.” _Please do._ “You’ll keep trying with your mama. Real life isn’t like storybooks, it takes time and hard work.”  
  
Wylan nodded. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re already running a tab.”  
  
Wylan rolled his eyes. (All the Saints, those _eyes…_ )  
  
“Speaking of which… is that really what you call it? Lying with someone?”  
  
“I also know anatomy,” Wylan said, defensive. “I studied anatomy books. For figure drawing.”  
  
“But…”  
  
“I didn’t say I read the descriptions.”  
  
Jesper laughed. “So what else do you call the act itself, then?”  
  
Wylan replied so softly Jesper _almost_ couldn’t make out the word “coupling”.  
  
“You _would_ use math.”  
  
“Ghezen,” Wylan swore. He pulled his pillow over his head.  
  
“Wy…”   
  
Jesper tugged at the pillow, but Wylan wasn’t giving it up.  
  
“So you wouldn’t call it rutting?” Jesper teased.  
  
Wylan groaned in protest.  
  
“Mating? A tumble in the hay? Having a romp? Humping? I know you know that word.” Wylan didn’t reply, so Jesper clearly had no choice but to continue: “Wearing a green gown? Licking both sides of the waffle? Three-to-one and bound to lose? Shaking the sheets without music? Going bread and butter fashion? Boarding a land carrack?”  
  
“Jesper!”  
  
“Shooting between the wind and the water? Winding a ball of yarn? Laboring leather? Playing the blanket hornpipe? Piercing the hogshead? A ride below the crupper?”  
  
By now the sound muffled by the pillow might have been laughter or sobs. Jesper lifted the pillow halfway off Wylan’s head. His face was bright red and tears glistened in his eyes. Wylan couldn’t stop laughing.  
  
Jesper grinned and kissed him. Wylan kissed back. It was a ridiculous sort of kiss, all laughter and breathlessness. And it was perfect.   
  
Jesper turned down the lamp. He scooted closer to Wylan and, since Wylan wasn’t giving up his hiding spot, pulled the pillow over both their heads. Somehow this seemed… apt. How else would they share a bed for the first time but close and chaste with their heads under a pillow?  
  
“This is going to be easy now that I know euphemisms are enough to make you smile. Just imagine how many I know for a man’s—”  
  
“ _Ghezen’s coffers, Jesper!_ ”  
  
“Is that the strongest swear you know?”  
  
“I know plenty of profanity words, but it doesn’t add much to the conversation.”  
  
_Profanity words_.   
  
A month ago he would have teased Wylan for saying that. Now, it may have been the most adorable thing Jesper had ever heard.  
  
They were quiet for a few minutes before Wylan asked, softly like Jesper might have nodded off, “Jes?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Is that—um—waffle thing—do people really say that?”  
  
“I made that one up.”  
  
“Did you make them all up?”  
  
“Are you sure you want to know?”  
  
“No,” Wylan decided quickly, “no, thank you. Good night, Jesper.”  
  
“’night, Sunshine.”  
  
“That doesn’t make sense.”  
  
“Shh. Go to sleep.”  
  
“Jesper?”  
  
And people thought he never stopped talking! Jesper might have been teetering on potentially saying something sharp when he murmured instead, “Hm?”  
  
“You’re perfect.”  
  
Any desire to speak sharply evaporated. Jesper closed the last few fractions of an inch between them; Wylan shifted, slipping an arm around Jesper.  
  
“If you were cold, you only had to say.”


	5. In Which There Is A Lapel Pin

Inej could come and go as she pleased. She did not need to be crawling the walls of the Van Eck mansion. She did it anyway, neither to get anywhere nor to slip away. Because she loved climbing up high and feeling the fresh air on her face. Because it was _fun_.  
  
She turned cartwheels on the roof and skittered down, swinging herself about.  
  
The weather was crisp and clear, and the city was relatively quiet. Maybe that was because the city was always relatively quiet in Geldstraat after the Barrel. Maybe it was quieter than usual with the threat of plague. Whatever the reason, Inej enjoyed it.  
  
“Give it back!”  
  
She edged along the brickwork carefully now as she approached an open window.  
  
“Come get it!”  
  
Jan Van Eck’s study was not, she imagined, a place one usually heard voices raised in fun. Inej peered in.  
  
“This is childish, Jesper!”  
  
Whatever Jesper had in his hand, Wylan was making a sporting effort to retrieve—but Jesper had strength and height on his side. Judging from the glance he gave the furniture, Wylan was seriously considering climbing onto the desk to get… whatever it was. He was dressed better today. Inej guessed someone had noticed his unfortunate apparel yesterday and taken in some of his old clothes. Merchants really did live in another world.   
  
Inej smiled at the two. She had liked Jesper before. He always had a knack for finding the one unsmiling person in the room and drawing them into the party. He had struggled with his weaknesses, but knew his strengths, knew he was good in a fight and always had an eye on his friends in a dangerous situation. For every time she had looked too long at Kaz and thought too much how she wanted to be noticed for more than her skills, Jesper had been there to remind her she was seen and valued.   
  
Wylan—that was complicated. Long before Wylan saw Inej, she followed him through the Barrel, collecting information for Kaz, reporting back little of use: a sullen, skittish boy who sometimes smiled at nothing and ducked his head when he caught himself doing it.   
  
Impractical as Wylan was, Inej had thought she would watch him starve to death before she found anything helpful to report to Kaz. He was a soft, thoughtful, useless creature. He would share what little food he had with bedraggled strays and beggars like he didn’t realize he was half of each. She had seen him speak up for children when he saw a parent raise a hand in public and the child flinch away, the sort of thing most people knew to just turn away from.  
  
“He’ll die before he does something useful,” Inej had told Kaz. “He’s no use to you as a corpse.”  
  
“If he’s half as pretty as you say, he’ll manage.”  
  
She hadn’t liked that Kaz, knowing what had been done to her, so casually consigned someone to that fate. Anyway, she had only mentioned his appearance to stress that he was soft.   
  
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to know how to talk to anyone.”  
  
“Men don’t always need them to talk.”  
  
The look in her eyes must have said that was too awful. She hated Kaz being so cavalier about terrible things. She hated him reminding her about them and seeming to suggest that it ought to be accepted. That’s life.  
  
“Boys die every day in the Barrel, or swallow their pride and survive. Why should this one be so different? Because of his daddy’s money?”  
  
Inej hadn’t said anything, but she thought, _No, Kaz. Because you made me care about him._  
  
Wylan and Jesper weren’t entirely dissimilar. They were different: Jesper was charming, confident, quick with a joke. On a job, Jesper was independent and efficient while Wylan did good demo work when told to. But they were both clever boys tripping over their weaknesses and poorly concealing their kind, large hearts in a rough world.  
  
As a couple, they were… strange. They reminded her of her cousins when she heard them laughing and whispering together at night. A part of her felt envy. Wished someone had been there to preserve her innocence the way Kaz preserved Wylan’s. Wished Kaz could reach out to her the way Jesper would to Wylan. Wished Nina were here, because if she were up whispering and giggling into the night, there was no one else she would be with but Nina…  
  
Mostly she was happy for them.  
  
Inej, in a smooth movement, hauled herself onto the windowsill, leapt onto the desk, then hurled herself over Jesper’s head, snatching his prize from his fingertips before he realized what was happening. She landed in the doorway.  
  
While the boys stared for a moment, Inej examined the token. She recognized it: a lapel pin with a fat ruby.   
  
“Hey,” Jesper objected.  
  
Inej grinned. “Come get it,” she said.  
  
Then she took off running.  
  
Jesper stood a chance at catching her on even ground; he was long-legged and tireless. Which meant she needed a way to take this chase off the ground. She took the corners without slowing, hurling herself at and off the walls to keep her lead time, judging her advantage by the sounds of footsteps and objections behind her.  
  
Inej couldn’t remember the last time she had this sort of fun.  
  
She paused at the top of the stairs, looking down the hallway. She was controlling her breathing too carefully to genuinely laugh, but there was a carefree grin on her face that made her eyes sparkle. It turned to a winner’s smirk when Jesper came around the corner.  
  
She gave him until halfway down the hallway, which was when Wylan stumbled into the hallway as well, red-faced but giving the game his best effort. Then Inej hopped on the bannister and slid down to the first floor.  
  
Once more turning to gloat, she saw a significant piece of her advantage slip away as Jesper leapt over the rail halfway down and headed full-tilt at her. She turned, ready to run—and crashed into a maid, sending a basket of laundry flying.   
  
A moment later, Jesper skidded to a halt a few feet away.  
  
“I’m sorry, miss,” the maid said, a wince in her voice.  
  
“Please don’t be.”  
  
How had she bumped into someone? But she knew. She had been playing, focused on the game, not the placement of her feet on the solid ground.  
  
Which is when Wylan arrived, out of breath.  
  
“Is everyone… okay?”  
  
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see your friends there, Mister Wylan.”  
  
Wylan waved off the apology. “Don’t be,” he said, puffed for a moment, then, “We weren’t… paying attention.”  
  
“You’re in terrible shape,” Inej muttered.  
  
“My ribs are bruised,” was Wylan’s retort.  
  
The three of them helped pick up the fallen laundry, earning surprised looks from the maid—this wasn’t how merchants and their guests were meant to behave themselves. Whether it was the rowdy game or helping pick up the laundry, she wasn’t sure. Both, probably.  
  
Wylan cleared his throat and gave Inej a meaningful look.  
  
“I apologize,” she told the maid. Inej _had_ been the one to crash into her. “So does Jesper.”  
  
“What? Why does Jesper?” Jesper said.  
  
“You were chasing me.”  
  
“You were running!”  
  
Wylan gave him that same look.  
  
“I apologize, too.”  
  
Wylan nodded, then scooped something up from the floor—his father’s lapel pin that they had been using for a game of keep-away.  
  
“Doesn’t count as winning, Coppercurls,” Jesper said, reaching out to tweak one of those curls.  
  
“Feels like it,” Wylan retorted, grinning. “Everything’s all right, isn’t it, Jette?”  
  
“Y-yes,” the maid—Jette—replied. “Thank you for asking. I should take the wash.”  
  
“I’m sorry we delayed you.”  
  
Once she had gone, he looked between his friends and told them: “Honestly, you are guests!” Then he burst out laughing, one hand going to his bruised ribs and the other to his pocket because this would be an excellent time to retrieve the lapel pin, if Inej were so inclined.   
  
Jesper looked to Inej, then grabbed Wylan by the waist and tossed him over his shoulder.   
  
“Hey!” Wylan objected. “Cheater!”  
  
“Inej, get the pin!”  
  
“Let me go!”  
  
“Get the pin!”  
  
Inej wasn’t entirely sure how it happened. She went for the pin. Wylan jerked against Jesper’s hold, successfully freeing himself and crashing into Inej, both of them falling against Jesper, and suddenly they were all three of them in a giggling tangle on the floor.   
  
Jesper said, “Oww.”  
  
Inej gave his knee a gentle punch. “Get off me.”  
  
“Don’t tell Kaz you had to say that.”  
  
“Inej?” Wylan asked, when the majority of the laughter had died down.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t prioritize the indentured Grisha.”  
  
“I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you about it.”  
  
She didn’t regret raising the subject. Wylan didn’t know what he was doing running a merchant house and that wasn’t his fault, but someone needed to give him pointers. She did regret mentioning his father that way. They were nothing alike. She had told him that once before.  
  
“Shake hands,” Jesper told them.  
  
Wylan had to extract a hand from the mix of limbs and bruises, but after a moment, he offered Inej a handshake. She accepted.  
  
“Good. I’m proud of you both. This would be an excellent time to celebrate with waffles.”  
  
They didn’t.  
  
They celebrated by extracting themselves from one another and going back to the office to look for the papers of indenture. She noticed Wylan holding his side as they went. Glutton. He’d never had friends before and didn’t know how to moderate play to what his body could handle, how to stop when he hurt.  
  
When she had been here last, lifting the DeKappel with Kaz, Inej was focused on accessing the office and taking the painting. She had given little thought to the paperwork. She and Jesper waded through it while Wylan stood by the window, fiddling with the lapel pin.  
  
There was probably sense to the filing system, in Van Eck’s mind, but Inej didn’t see it. He kept a book of tidily scripted notes, all dated and chronological; his most recent bills of lading; one ledger was dedicated to mediks’ reports about Alys’s pregnancy.  
  
“Merchling,” Jesper said, and motioned him over.  
  
Inej peered at the paperwork in front of him. It didn’t seem the most relevant to her, an account of a ship that recently went down, but maybe he saw something she didn’t. Sitting still did not suit Jesper and he was standing at the desk for now, his papers nearly upside down from Inej’s perspective.   
  
Wylan jammed his hands in his pockets and came over.  
  
“Did you find them?” he asked.  
  
Jesper wrapped an arm around him. “No, but you were sad over there and now you’re here with me.”  
  
“‘With you’ is the opposite of sad.” Wylan sounded like he had been trying to tell a joke but accidentally said the truth.  
  
Inej focused hard on the papers in front of her. She wasn’t sure when these two had shifted from growling and retorts to saying things like that to each other. Wylan and Jesper were starting to sound like Nina and Matthias—a thought that struck hard.  
  
When they still hadn’t tracked down the papers and the morning was nearly worn away, Wylan excused himself: “Inej, I have to see my mother.”  
  
“I understand.”  
  
She truly did. She would give anything for that chance and did not fault Wylan for leaving the search for the Grisha indenture papers—especially as he was unable to help. It would probably more productive without the distractions, anyway. She had learned a good deal about the Van Eck shipping empire, because it seemed like every few minutes Jesper had another question about something unrelated to the indentures.  
  
“I’ll go with you,” Jesper said.  
  
“You don’t have to do that.”  
  
“I know,” Jesper agreed, “that’s what makes me so perfect.”  
  
It wasn’t an uncommon sentiment from Jesper, but between his tone and the rush of blood to Wylan’s face, Inej knew it was a joke between the two of them now.  
  
“Part of it,” Wylan said. Turning to Inej, “Do you have plans for the afternoon?”  
  
She didn’t, so Jesper wrote a letter to Cornelis Smeet asking for copies of the Grisha indenture papers. He was sure to have them. It was a task Inej was pleased to take on. Wylan wasn’t a part of the slaving industry, but the concept of indentures still sat badly with her.   
  
Ketterdam was quiet that day.  
  
Fear of the plague kept anyone who could afford it indoors. The Barrel would be teeming less than usual, but still busy, Inej knew. Her mind went to Kaz. He would be planning something, he always was. Something new. Building something to burn. A part of her thought leadership of the Dregs had been his end goal. A bigger part knew better. Kaz never ran a single game at once.  
  
Inej walked rather than climbed, because she could. What a nice reason to do something: because I can. She had not abandoned common sense, of course. She carried her Saints with her, the Saints in whom she placed her faith and the metal Saints for more practical situations.   
  
At first, she wasn’t certain why today felt so different. Relief, maybe? The past weeks had been mad ones. Or was it just the difference?  
  
No, she realized. She was on this errand because Wylan had _asked_. They were working together to figure things out. In fact, this had been her idea.  
  
It was the first day Inej Ghafa walked the streets of Ketterdam without carrying a debt.


	6. A Return to Saint Hilde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: asylum, use of restraints on an institutionalized individual

“Mama.”  
  
Marya was still restrained, but disengaged today. Wylan reached for her hand. The soft wrappings had not prevented bruises from forming on her wrists, and he noted to himself that he needed to speak with the nurses before leaving. He understood she might be a danger to herself, but being in bed for days at a time carried its own risks.  
  
His fingers brushed Marya’s, and his heart stung when she pulled her hand away, but he didn’t reach out again. If she didn’t want him holding her hand, he wouldn’t.  
  
“It’s Wylan again. I’m sorry things went so badly yesterday, I…” What? What could he say? How much could he explain? “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry I didn’t come before, that it took me so long to grow up.”  
  
He should have figured this out a long time ago. Why didn’t he come looking for his mother’s grave? He never stopped missing her. Her ‘death’, her absence never stopped hurting. Why had he not come to find her?  
  
Of course Wylan knew. He had mentioned it a few times when he was younger, but his father said no. Before he was “sent to study music in Belendt”, Wylan never would have defied his father. He skirted the rules sometimes, would do things he knew he wasn’t supposed to do but hadn’t been forbidden from, but did not defy. Looking for, let alone visiting Marya’s grave would have been defiance.  
  
For all the good that did her now.  
  
Wylan sat in a chair beside her bed, watching Marya as she stared away from him, at the window. He looked, he thought, a little closer to the son she would remember. He had genuinely tried to comb his hair, and his clothes fit less poorly. His flute was out rather than stored in its case. There was nothing he could do about the fact that he was bruised and scrawny and still forgot sometimes to take his eyes off his feet, but he was trying. And… then there was his satchel. For months he barely went anywhere without it. Yesterday had dented his courage enough that Wylan once more felt it was better having it near, so it rested at his feet, the strap looped around his knee.  
  
None of which seemed to matter to Marya, since she kept her attention fixed on the window. She did not want to see Wylan.  
  
He stayed anyway.  
  
“Why won’t you so much as look at me?”  
  
He knew his father had been disappointed, and then disgusted by him, and he knew why. Even when they would argue about him, though, Wylan didn’t recall his mother ever seeming disappointed.  
  
Maybe he was misremembering. He had been young.  
  
It hurt.  
  
“Because,” Marya said, her voice low, “you are not my son.”  
  
Well that hit like a frying pan, a sudden, dull thwack of pain across his chest.  
  
“I am your son.”  
  
“You’re a monster.”  
  
Wylan swallowed painfully. Not her, too. His mind whirred, making vows to Ghezen: he would be dutiful, he would tithe every week, he wouldn’t use the office as a place to play games or think inappropriate thoughts. He could only try on that last one and it wouldn’t be easy working with Jesper—easy, or fair, everything about Jesper being so perfect—but he would try.  
  
“Whatever I did,” Wylan said, picking his words carefully, “tell me how to make it up to you.”  
  
He would do anything.  
  
“Coming here,” she muttered, “pretending to be him. My Wylan is dead.”  
  
His eyes widened. Dead? What must Jan have told her? It must have come from him. Maybe he had come to taunt her when he paid to have Wylan killed. That seemed especially cruel, as Marya could shout the crime to anyone in earshot and no one would listen. Not to a mad woman.  
  
_I’m so sorry._  
  
If he visited before, would Jan maybe have been impressed? Thought there was something of value in Wylan? Jan could appreciate spirit. “Spirited” was a positive observation at Caryeva, maybe if Wylan had… but he hadn’t, had he? He hadn’t done much of anything for most of his life.  
  
“I’m not dead.”  
  
“You’re not my Wylan.”  
  
“We used to paint together. You played the piano.”  
  
Marya said nothing.  
  
That didn’t prove much, Wylan realized. He could have been anyone off of Geldstraat and known those things.  
  
He looked at her hand on the blanket. He supposed it looked familiar, but wished he had spent more time as a child memorizing everything about her. That she might die hadn’t occurred to him. What eight-year-old expected their mother to die? Or to be taken from them?  
  
“We played a game in church,” he said, trying to recall exactly. “We took turns picking the word for that day, and every time we heard it we would race to be the first to squeeze each other’s hands. You weren’t pious like… like he was.” Their game made church services less boring, while simultaneously encouraging Wylan to pay better attention.  
  
He tried to remember now, tried to find more in his memory that might help prove himself. These were the sorts of memories that followed a sick churn in his stomach, memories of things he had lost and times he spent as an innocent, dumb kid who didn’t know anything about anything.  
  
“There was a sweet shop.”  
  
Vaguely he remembered. He had been small—five? Six? Less?  
  
“We would go to the university to eat ice cream and look at the Boeksplein.” ‘Supposed to’ scarcely entered his mind at the time. Was the place meant for students? Yes. Did that stop Marya Van Eck from taking her son to look at the gargoyles? It did not. “I was frightened the first time. The monsters. I—got ice cream on your gown,” which was embarrassing to admit to now, “but you said it was okay. You told me they were good monsters.”  
  
Marya turned her head away from the window to scrutinize the boy in front of her. Wylan wanted to shrink, afraid of what she might see. Afraid she might not recognize him. Afraid, worse, that she might, and reject him anyway.  
  
Barely above a whisper, he said, “We stopped going to the Boeksplein because of me.”  
  
Her fingers were cold when they closed tight around his.  
  
“ _Wylan._ ”  
  
He nodded. “Yes.”  
  
“My Wylan.”  
  
“Yes. I’m so sorry I didn’t come before. I’m sorry.”  
  
He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to tell her about his adventures in Fjerda (even though he knew it was better he didn’t, since everyone would take it as more sign of madness if Marya Hendriks started saying her dead son and his friends stole a tank and blew a hole in the Ice Court). He wanted to tell her that he played the flute and the piano and was clever with maths and engineering even if he still couldn’t, you know.  
  
He wanted to tell her about Jesper.  
  
“You’re here,” Marya observed, tears filling her eyes.  
  
“I’m here,” Wylan confirmed.  
  
He wanted to tell her everything, but he didn’t know if she was there to hear it.  
  
But for now, she knew his name.  
  
It was enough.  
  
Wylan would have stayed for hours with his mother, he was so happy to see her looking more aware, to see the recognition in her eyes. It was clear, too, that her mind was no longer fully intact, but she was improving already. She would get better. She knew his name.  
  
He left because a nurse chirpily asked him to leave, explaining it was time for them to get Marya cleaned up. He winced internally to hear his mother discussed like a child, but knew this wasn’t the time to argue.  
  
“I’ll come back tomorrow, Mama,” Wylan said. He kissed her hand. “I love you.”  
  
It felt like something tearing loose inside him. How long had he wanted to tell his mother that just one more time?  
  
She smiled at him. “I love you, my Wylan.”  
  
Wylan couldn’t remember the last time someone said they loved him. He didn’t know who he wanted to hear it from more. For a moment he held on to her hand, not wanting to let this moment end, but the pleasant nurse cleared her throat and he remembered that it was time.  
  
He would be back tomorrow.  
  
He hoped she would still love him then.  
  
They had agreed that Jesper would wait in the parlor, both so Wylan could have time alone with his mother and in case seeing Jesper, who had previously claimed to work for Smeet, might upset her. He was there. He was there beside a vase of flowers with half-shredded petals giving his revolvers a twirl, an activity he completed with a flourish when he spotted Wylan.  
  
_Beautiful show-off._  
  
“How did it go?”  
  
Wylan smiled. “She knew me.”  
  
_My mama loves me._  
  
He was too old for that thought, but it still warmed him through.  
  
Jesper smiled back.  
  
“There’s something I’d like to clear up before we go. You don’t have to come with me.”  
  
“You know me better than that, coppercurls,” Jesper replied. Leaning close enough that no one would overhear, “I’ll always come for you.”  
  
Wylan knew he was supposed to blush. Jesper was using his suggestive tone, and the feeling of his breath brushing against Wylan’s ear prompted a hint of pink.  
  
Jesper searched Wylan’s face, and Wylan saw the moment when he reached the conclusion that Wylan just didn’t know what Jesper was talking about.  
  
“All the Saints and your Aunt Eva.”  
  
“I don’t have an Aunt Eva,” Wylan grumbled.  
  
He needed to speak with someone in authority here. He did not, as his father would have done, demand an immediate meeting, but he made clear he expected one. Today.  
  
They met with the same man who had tried to dissuade Wylan yesterday from seeing his mother. He invited Wylan and Jesper to have a seat in his office and, facing them across the desk, said, “Did you have further questions about your mother’s condition?”  
  
“Yes,” Wylan said, “who told her I was dead?”  
  
Jesper was surprised, but the administrator sadly shook his head.  
  
“I didn’t agree with that decision,” he said. “Some years ago, Councilman Van Eck asked that to help her live peacefully and to protect you, she be told you had passed on.”  
  
“Why? How would that help her? How would it protect me?”  
  
“When she first arrived, she was deeply agitated at being separated from her son—from you. She made multiple attempts to leave the facility, in one incident injuring herself. As for your safety, surely you’ve seen by now that your mother is mad.”  
  
Wylan’s expression was controlled, but he clutched his own hands tightly as he imagined his mother trying to find him. Had she known what Jan was? No, silly question—of course she had, _he had institutionalized her._ At the same time: when he was alone, mourning, and silenced, someone had loved him. Someone wanted to help him.  
  
He hurt to think of what Marya went through, but he was touched by it, too.  
  
“She’s not mad.”  
  
“Mister Van Eck, she may have had a good day but I’ve done this work longer than you’ve been alive. She will have good days, but it doesn’t last.”  
  
“It will,” Wylan insisted.  
  
She wasn’t mad. She was lost—and he would help her find herself. All that time she spent trying to protect him. It was Wylan’s turn.  
  
For the first time, he left Saint Hilde feeling hopeful. As he and Jesper walked back toward the boat, he enjoyed it. Where they were, what they were doing. Who he was with.  
  
“Are you sure you want to head right back?” Wylan asked. “We could… do something exciting.”  
  
“The only exciting thing to do out here is me.”  
  
Wylan supposed he had the idea that there was more fun to be had out here than back at Geldstraat. Maybe something to distract Jesper—he was probably bored halfway out of his skull by now.  
  
He didn’t reply to that, though. He was too busy blushing.  
  
A few minutes later and in a more serious tone, Jesper asked, “Wy, are you okay?”  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
“I’m here if you’re not.”  
  
“Thank you.” Really—it meant a lot, not only that he was here but that he had offered to come. “But this is one of the happiest days I’ve had in… years. You’re here. My mother is getting better. She… she said she loves me.”  
  
Someone loved him. He didn’t recall whether Jan had stopped saying it or never said it to begin with. He thought he recalled his father saying he loved him, but—had he said it? Meant it?  
  
Hearing that his mother loved him meant more than Wylan knew how to put into words and a fragile, fluttering feeling sparked in him. _My mama loves me._ He wouldn’t have been surprised if Jesper made a joke about it, but didn’t expect he would. Wylan had seen Jesper with his father. He knew Jesper understood the importance of parents. And love.  
  
Jesper didn’t say anything. He reached out to take Wylan’s hand and they walked back to the dock together.  
  
“Jes,” Wylan said, keeping his voice low as they waited for the boat back to Ketterdam.  
  
“I’m right here. It’s difficult to lose me.”  
  
“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never tried.”  
  
That wasn’t strictly true. Before the Ice Court, before he saw another side of Jesper, Wylan found him attractive but extremely annoying. He had tried to avoid seeing Jesper sometimes. It was strange to think about, how differently he saw Jesper just a few weeks ago.  
  
“I know what he did was despicable, but hating him won’t make her better.”

* * *

  
  
It was because of his mother that Wylan went to the kitchen that afternoon.  
  
“May I interrupt your work for a moment, Miss Molenaar?”  
  
He supposed the cook couldn’t say no, but he wasn’t certain who else to ask. She had been around for as long as Wylan could remember and had always been kind to him, limited though their interactions were.   
  
“Yes, but you might’ve rung if you’re hungry.”  
  
“I’m not hungry,” Wylan said.  
  
His stomach disagreed vocally.  
  
Maybe he was hungry because he was at an always-growing age; maybe he was hungry because looking at the braids of garlic and bundles of herbs reminded him that food existed, and his body had forgotten how to take that for granted. Whatever the reason, before he could insist that he really wasn’t, there was a glass of milk and a plate of buns in front of him.  
  
“Thank you.” He took a bite and realized—“These were my favorite.” He hadn’t eaten them in ages, but they tasted exactly the way he remembered, beaded with raisins and glazed with honey.  
  
The first ‘thank you’ had been good manners.  
  
This was a softer and more specific, “Thank you, Miss Molenaar.”  
  
“You’re welcome, Mister Wylan. Now. What did you need?”  
  
“Need? Um—yes.” Distracting pastries. “I wanted to ask if you remembered much about my mother.”  
  
“The first Mrs. Van Eck—yes, I remember her. What did you want to know about her?”  
  
“Anything, really. What she was like.” Wylan fiddled with the glass of milk, swiping beads of condensation off the side.  
  
“She loved you.”  
  
_She still loves me._  
  
“Mrs. Van Eck was… she was happy. She was quick with a joke. She liked to dance. Everyone loved her.”  
  
Wylan nodded, but there was a catch, something he heard in her voice. As he tried to put the question into words, Wylan heard a steady sound. He realized as he had been absorbed in speaking with Miss Molenaar, someone else had come into the kitchen. He glanced over.  
  
“He doesn’t—”  
  
“He doesn’t work here,” the cook confirmed. The boy couldn’t have been more than seven, if that, far too young to be working anywhere. Yet there he was, rolling a ball against the wall. “This is my nephew, Gavrie. He doesn’t have anywhere else—the city’s half shut from the plague. He’s no harm.”  
  
“Of course not. Hello, Gavrie.”  
  
Gavrie gave a shy wave, but it wasn’t hard to see where his attention really was. Wylan offered him a bun. The child smiled and grabbed it, then retreated.  
  
“Thank you,” Miss Molenaar supplied. Gavrie didn’t look up from the bun. “My sister was… he was born in Ravka.”  
  
Wylan understood. If Miss Molenaar’s sister was in Ravka and there was something she didn’t want to say, her sister was probably Grisha. He heard rumors about what had happened during the civil war. A child living through that…  
  
“He’s lucky to have you caring for him,” Wylan said.  
  
There was something deeper in the look on her face, but Wylan couldn’t discern what it was.  
  
In a suddenly busier, more pragmatic tone, Miss Molenaar said, “Go on, drink up. You’re a growing boy.”  
  
Wylan obediently picked up his glass and gulped the milk before he realized the conversation had been shut down and he didn’t know why.


	7. The Grisha Indentures

“I read them,” Inej told Jesper and Wylan when they met up in the library. She had been pleasantly surprised to find a nautical book with a chapter on knot-tying; practice knots tied in twine littered the table in front of her. The indenture papers were on the table, too.  
  
Jesper picked up one of the contracts, sliding a couple of sheet bends off it. “They’re the same?”  
  
“The values vary, but they’re mostly identical. With the Transfer of Authority signed and returned now, Wylan can void them if he wants to.” Inej glanced at Wylan, waiting for his reaction.  
  
“I’m not going to do that,” Wylan replied softly. He met her gaze, but without any challenge in his eyes. “I know you don’t like it, Inej, but there _are_ advantages to indentures. They’re safe here. If I void the contracts without asking what they want, how am I any better than my father?”  
  
Maybe. Inej doubted Jan Van Eck’s indentures were obtained the way Tante Heleen purchased her indenture, but even so, these people had all but traded over their freedom. She had seen previous papers at Smeet’s, enough to realize the indentures were designed to make squirreling anything away difficult—so that when an indenture ended, sometimes the only option someone had was to re-indenture.  
  
“Those rates are very high,” Wylan said.  
  
Inej remembered the numbers on her own papers of indenture. Comparatively, she had been cheap. The price of a human being wasn’t something she often thought about, so learning those numbers were high surprised her. Was it anything against the cost to a soul?  
  
“What were those dates again?” Wylan asked.  
  
Jesper read them off.  
  
Wylan took a breath and blew it out in a way that told Inej he had done the math, as well. He sighed, shook his head.  
  
“What am I missing here?” Jesper asked.  
  
“The war in Ravka,” Inej said.  
  
“Son of a bitch.”  
  
Wylan nodded. “Basically.”  
  
What better time to sweep a Grisha into a cost-efficient indenture than when they were fleeing a civil war and uncertain there was _any_ safe place for them? Shu Han meant being cut open. Fjerda meant being burned to death. Novyi Zem and the Southern Colonies were safer, but expensive to reach.  
  
“You are not your father, Wylan.” Inej could see his thoughts turning that direction. He had benefitted from Jan Van Eck’s Ghezen-sanctioned exploitative behavior, but he was trying to put it right.  
  
“He’s a bad person. This... this is practically  blasphemy!”  
  
“You take after your mother,” Jesper said.  
  
“I’ll be with you when you speak with them,” Inej reminded Wylan.  
  
He nodded.  
  
“I’ll be there, too. Working in my official capacity as Mister Van Eck’s secretary.”  
  
“I can’t make him stop saying that.”  
  
Inej wasn’t surprised: “You can’t make Jesper stop saying anything.”  
  
“True,” Jesper agreed with a sage nod.  
  
Inej remembered—couldn’t stop herself from remembering—what Van Eck had done to her. She remembered the days and nights in that dark room, being coaxed and cajoled into speaking, the horrible coldness in his eyes. She remembered the casual way he had smacked Bajan. Bajan was weak, an accomplice afraid to do the work himself, but that did not change how brutally efficient Van Eck’s use of violence was.  
  
He would hate Jesper. He would hate him for being loud, for being funny, for the clothes he wore and the constant way he smiled. He would hate the relaxed, casual, boisterous way he continued being himself even here, and Inej loved him for it. Nothing could push away the specter of that man quite like Jesper, simply by refusing to conform to the heaviness of expectations that weighted the air in this house.  
  
“Of course, Wy…”  
  
Wylan’s eyes had gone distant. He was too still, gripping the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles were going white.  
  
Jesper trailed a fingertip up his arm, a ghost of touch as he concluded, “…you could _try_ to make me.”  
  
Well, his eyes were present now, wide as a blush crept up his face. Wylan stammered half-syllables while Jesper grinned shamelessly. It was after too long of a pause to be a true retort that a red-faced Wylan squeaked, “M-maybe later.”  
  
Inej couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a look of such utter delight on Jesper’s face. It wasn’t the adrenaline-fueled giddiness after a good brawl, nor the gleam when Kaz first told him about the Ice Court job. This awkward little mercher boy’s failed attempt at flirting made Jesper happier than four million _kruge_.  
  
Wylan dropped his face into his hands. He was laughing, red as a strawberry, and seemed to genuinely mean it as he said, “I’m sorry, Inej!”  
  
She wasn’t as entertained as Jesper, but she was smiling nonetheless—at their happiness and ridiculousness and Wylan’s utter hopelessness as a flirt.  
  
“It’s okay,” Inej said.  
  
Though it did postpone their going to speak with the Grisha until the blush was gone and Wylan had stopped biting his lips to keep from snickering. Jesper was no help. The little group was heading out of the library when he slung an arm across Wylan’s shoulders and told him softly, “Definitely later.”  
  
Eventually—so long Inej had given both boys an unamused look to spur them on—they did make it to the Grisha workshop.  
  
Wylan held the indentures of two Grisha. There had been a Tidemaker, but he was given jurda parem and did not survive. Now there was a Durast and a Healer left, neither much older than Inej.  
  
She swallowed the pain at thinking about that. Their indentures had not been like hers, but still conjured memories that were painful to carry.  
  
Wylan laid out the terms he could offer them: he understood his father had approached them when they were vulnerable and in need of help, if they wanted, he would void the contracts and help them return to Ravka. Inej gave a small nod of approval even as the Durast, Pyotr, scoffed.  
  
“Back to Ravka?” he asked. “To fight another stupid war for another stupid king?”  
  
He was the only person in the room past twenty, and seemed keenly aware of it. The look he gave Wylan was at best derisive; he held himself proudly and had probably struggled enough being indentured to a grown man. No wonder his pride smarted—but Inej had spent enough time in the Dregs to know a boy could be a better leader than a man.  
  
She was surprised at how keenly the thought made her miss Kaz. She had seen him just days ago. It felt like longer.  
  
“Where would you like to go?” Wylan asked.  
  
He scoffed at the question. Delightful, Inej thought. This one must have had loads of fun working for Jan.  
  
“I’ll stay,” said the Healer.  
  
“Sveta,” Pyotr said. What he said next was in Ravkan, and Inej understood it was meant to be private. She understood his words, too, but said nothing. It was better for people to have that comfort, believing they had privacy, and she meant them no ill will.  
  
“I do not want to go home either,” Sveta said, picking her words carefully. “I only like being Grisha because I have friends. Now only Pyotr. We lost Mikka. I want to live. In the Little Palace…”  
  
They had heard rumors of what happened during the civil war. The massacre at the Little Palace was the stuff of grisly whispers. Inej wondered if Sveta thought about it the way she thought about the Menagerie. If she ever imagined it burning to the ground.  
  
“You can stay,” Wylan agreed.  
  
Pyotr tried again, and again Sveta argued in Kerch: “Nowhere is safe. Slavers get you everywhere.”  
  
Inej knew how true that was, and would admit that there was a degree of safety on Geldstraat. She and Kaz had been able to break in, but she and Kaz were the best in the business, and the Van Eck mansion was now home to someone with a basic knowledge of how criminals worked.  
  
“These people killed Mikka! They killed Anya!”  
  
At the raised voice, Jesper stood up straighter from where he leaned against the wall. Inej didn’t know what he thought he was going to do  
  
“Not me,” Wylan objected. “I had nothing to do with my father’s… experiments.”  
  
“Where were you to stop him?”  
  
“He wasn’t here,” Jesper drawled, sounding almost bored. “You were. He’s not Grisha, either. You are. Seems to me you’re more to blame.”  
  
“Do not—” Pyotr said.  
  
At the same time, Inej said, “Jes,” in a warning tone.  
  
“What do you want, Pyotr?” Wylan asked.  
  
Pyotr scowled for a moment, then he shrugged.  
  
“Sveta,” Jesper said, “Mister Van Eck has bruised ribs, can you fix that?”  
  
She nodded. “Yes. It will be easy.”  
  
Jesper gave Wylan a meaningful look. Wylan cleared his throat and asked, “Can that be handled somewhere more private?”  
  
Sveta showed Wylan into the next room, leaving Inej and Jesper with the sullen Durast. Inej took the time to study him. From what she knew of Ravka, Pyotr, as a Fabrikator, would not have had combat training. He looked like he could hold his own in a fight, anyway.  
  
“I was indentured once,” Inej told him. “I understand it’s not—easy, but Wylan is nothing like his father. If you want to be released from your contract, he’ll respect that.”  
  
Pyotr scowled. She suspected he did a lot of that.  
  
“They’re family, not the same man,” Jesper added.  
  
“He’s not a man.”  
  
Somehow, that made perfect sense to Inej. She remembered how she felt when Kaz handed her the papers from her own indenture, paid in full. It had made perfect sense at the time. Wylan was only a bit younger, but the idea of him handing over her papers felt quite different.  
  
Noticing a flash in Jesper’s eyes, Inej gave him a tiny shake of her head. Jes was rash, but this was no situation for drawn guns and thrown fists, nor for sharp words, however well intended. He gave her a sheepish look and settled for stroking the handles of his revolvers. Whether that was meant to be intimidating or just a response to sitting still, she wasn’t certain.  
  
“Van Eck said we would be together when we signed the papers. He sold Anya's indenture first. She died. Then Mikka. Sveta stays, I stay.”  
  
Pyotr scowled once more, then stood and left the room.  
  
“He’s delightful,” Jesper remarked.  
  
Inej was inclined to agree. And she was surprised. She had not thought it possible to be more disgusted by Jan Van Eck.  
  
She was surprised by how the discussion had gone. When she was in the Menagerie, Inej would have been suspicious and surprised if anyone offered her the chance to leave—anyone, not just a boy with an especially shady reputation. But she would have wanted it.  
  
Maybe Sveta had a point. More than her Grisha powers made her vulnerable; she was a quite pretty girl. It was dangerous, to be a pretty girl. The Second Army gave Grisha a good life, from what Nina had said, but Nina was a patriot. Sveta sounded like she had cared more for her friends. Seeing them killed, it was no wonder she didn’t want to go back to the Little Palace.  
  
“Jesper.”  
  
“Where?” Jesper asked, making a show of looking around.  
  
Inej gave him an exasperated but amused look.  
  
“Don’t keep her cooped up here. Help her find some friends.”  
  
He looked at her for a moment, saw that she wasn’t just serious but deeply meant what she said, and nodded. Sveta had Pyotr, but her shrinking social circle oughtn’t be capped at _she knew one other person._  
  
Wylan and Sveta returned a moment later.  
  
“Thank you, Sveta.”  
  
She had fixed not only his ribs but the bruising on his face.  
  
Looking at Jesper, Sveta said, “He has damage, too.”  
  
“Please fix it.”  
  
Sveta motioned for Jesper to follow her, but he shook his head. “Here’s fine,” he said, removing his shirt. Wylan looked away.  
  
Inej thought about the showers at the Ice Court. How had Wylan managed? Inej had been nervous herself, even knowing what to expect it wasn’t easy to undress around so many strangers. But she had been with Nina. Nina, who was her friend, who seemed untouched by nerves. _Ooh, look, my nipples are at eye level_. Inej had ducked her head and let the tremors in her shoulders seem like sobs to the Fjerdans while Nina knew she was laughing.  
  
She guessed the boys hadn’t had quite the same experience being jailed. The cell was dank and dirty, and they were surrounded by strangers who may well have been genuine criminals, but Nina may as well have been at home the way she carried on, pulling Inej into conversation.  
  
_Inej, if you won’t talk to me, I’ll sing.  
  
You’ll get yourself killed doing that,_ Inej had replied, a smile tugging at her lips despite herself.  
  
She imagined Kaz and Jesper would have been much the same alone, but were probably less at ease with a grumpy bear and a skittish fawn in tow.  
  
“That’s much better,” Jesper said.  
  
Wylan glanced at him, then away again.  
  
Inej threw his shirt at his head.  
  
“Thank you, Inej,” Jesper retorted. “It’s okay, Wylan. You can look now.”  
  
“I apologize for thinking you might like privacy, Jesper, it won’t happen again,” Wylan said.  
  
Inej heard his mistake even before Jesper acknowledged it: “I hope not.”  
  
“I apologize for my guests, Sveta,” Wylan told the girl.  
  
She didn’t seem to mind.  
  
After they left, Inej felt Wylan’s attention drifting to her. She looked at him, but he looked away. She gave him a few more chances to say something. She wasn’t surprised he didn’t take them.  
  
“Wylan?”  
  
“I saw the books you had in the library,” he explained. “You should use them.”  
  
A small pile of them. If Inej was being honest, she had fully intended if not to take them, at least to read them, but she hadn’t wanted to flaunt it. Wylan couldn’t use his own books.  
  
She nodded.  
  
“You’re really serious about getting yourself a ship?” Jesper asked, falling back to join them. “And trying to avoid me? A man could be _hurt_!” he gasped, tossing an arm around each of their shoulders.  
  
“Yes,” Inej said, “and have you told Wylan about the time I climbed you?”  
  
“You didn’t,” Wylan objected.  
  
“I did,” Inej said.  
  
She hadn’t precisely needed to—she could have scaled the wall—but…  
  
“Like a squirrel,” Jesper added. “All we needed to do was get through the back window at Judge Visser’s country home, but we had counted on the painters’ ladder being enough—this is hours outside the city.”  
  
“I know the place.”  
  
“I beg your pardon, merchling?”  
  
“I’ve been to Judge Visser’s country home. My mother and Mrs. Visser were friends.”  
  
Inej was intrigued by that—why hadn’t Kaz tried to recruit a mercher’s boy earlier? Maybe cultivated that relationship when he was still a respectable member of the household? They had needed to try to make Wylan useful in the Barrel. In his early days on Geldstraat, he would have been much better an asset.  
  
She gave herself an internal shake. An idea to consider another time. Or not! Maybe she had spent too long in Kaz’s company.  
  
Unaware of her thoughts, Jesper replied, “Of _course_ you have. Well, then you know there’s nowhere nearby to get yourself a bigger ladder. So Inej told me to go up the ladder and see if I could reach the window. The next thing I know, there are these tiny hands grabbing hold of me—”  
  
“I could reach the window from his shoulders.”  
  
“You stepped on my head.”  
  
“I could almost reach the window from his shoulders.”


	8. Debts and Corrections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: physical and emotional abuse (discussed)

“I want you in my bed tonight.”  
  
Wylan’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He squeaked desperate syllables for a moment before managing, “You didn’t have to phrase it that way!”  
  
“We both know I did,” Jesper replied, grinning at Wylan’s blush.  
  
Same as last night, Wylan obligingly followed Jesper to the bedroom he already considered his, but this time he didn’t pick up his nightshirt and ask Jesper to turn away so he could change. There was a look on his face—a question, something he was nervous to bring up.  
  
Jesper waited.  
  
Wylan reached into his pocket and took out—  
  
“Bullets,” Jesper observed. Wylan was no marksman, so those were for Jesper. “Kinky.”  
  
“It’s not for that,” Wylan said, pink.  
  
Jesper had guessed as much. When should reality prevent a joke, though?  
  
“Then you’re no good at picking a romantic gift.”  
  
“I’ll owe you a good one.”  
  
“You could have at least got me a whole box.”  
  
“I’ll get you something new, that I didn’t just take from the armory.”  
  
“You have an armory?”  
  
“Yes. Well, the house guards have an armory. It’s a little armory.”  
  
Jesper suspected he knew the reason, but there was so much hope shimmering in Wylan’s eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to just say, _No, and we’re not going to discuss it._  
  
Instead he took a breath and blew it out to buy himself some time and calm.  
  
_Please explain the contents of your trousers._  
  
That would have been funny. Jesper wished he’d said it earlier, when Wylan first showed him the bullets. Now too much time had passed.  
  
“Why are the not-kinky, not-romantic bullets in our bedroom?”  
  
“I thought maybe we—maybe you could try using your abilities.”  
  
Jesper would have criticized the selection, but bullets made the most sense. He had accepted that his zowa abilities likely were behind his skill as a sharpshooter. Not the only thing, he had practice and experience, but his abilities took him from good to extraordinary. He worked more with bullets than anything else.  
  
He wondered if Wylan knew those bullets wouldn’t fit his revolvers.  
  
Anyone else and he might have asked questions. What was he supposed to do? What was this going to prove? Couldn’t they just take their clothes off and make the other kind of magic?  
  
But…  
  
But Wylan was doing that annoying thing he did again, the one where he looked up at Jesper with so much hope and faith and his too-long hair falling over his eyes. It made Jesper feel like he had been entrusted with something really expensive. He remembered serving as Kaz’s second—with Geels, other times as well, how he had hated handing over his revolvers. How he would put fear in the heart of anyone who held them, just to be sure. This, whatever it was, was entrusted to Jesper with no threat.  
  
What? Trust? Plea? He didn’t know, but he knew it worked.  
  
He sighed.  
  
“All right, but only because I forgot how much I liked your stupid face. Put them down.”  
  
Wylan set the bullets on the dressing table in the corner, near the razor, brush, and the rest of Jesper’s shaving kit. They didn’t spend enough time in here to clutter it with anything else.  
  
Jesper motioned for Wylan to step away. “Stop distracting me. You’re being beautiful while standing too close. Cheating.”  
  
“If you don’t want to,” Wylan began, blushing and trying to ignore it.  
  
“I’m good with bullets, merchling, but what I do with them is kill people.”  
  
Wylan stepped back to the wall.  
  
Jesper gave him a nod— _thank you_. He couldn’t do this with Wylan close.  
  
He focused on the bullets. _Move the bullets._ That was what he usually did. Well, not move, more like nudge, the ‘move’ came from the gunpowder. Jesper thought about the metal shavings he had moved at the Ice Court.  
  
He held his hand a foot over the bullets, just getting a feeling for them. He felt the impurities in the metal, the completeness of each shape.  
  
No one taught Jesper how to do this. When he was small, he had watched his ma, but mostly she made things do what they naturally did—boiled water, made the dough rise, the same as they naturally did but quicker. He had seen her separate out one thing from another, though, one sort of cell from another kind. It was similar to that, he supposed. Moving one cell apart. Moving one group of cells—  
  
The bullets hit his palm with a dull thud. They moved too slowly to do damage; his staring was not because he thought he was in any danger. No… it was because he had just fabrikated bullets into his hand.  
  
From his spot against the wall, Wylan applauded.  
  
“I know, I’m amazing,” Jesper agreed. “Didn’t we have an agreement about you in my bed?”  
  
Same as last night, Jesper promised not to look when Wylan changed. He thought about it—not about looking, he had promised, but what he might see if he did. He couldn’t know Wylan was almost naked and _not_ imagine freckled shoulders, a dust of hair trailing down, thighs smooth and pale as cream…  
  
It had been a while. Jesper had an itch.  
  
Jesper’s instinct was to loop his gun belt around the bedpost so his revolvers were right there if he needed them, but he didn’t know if Wylan would mind that. If it would remind him of… something else. Jesper had taken his share of hidings growing up, but always in a context of, _I don’t like doing this to you but it’s to keep you safe_. He imagined it had been different for Wylan, knowing how Jan Van Eck talked about his son. Probably a bit more, _You’re a failure and don’t deserve to carry my name.  
  
_Jesper settled for putting his revolvers on the table by the bed. They were still close enough to reach in a heartbeat.  
  
Wylan gave the door an uncomfortable look.  
  
“He’s not coming back,” Jesper said.  
  
He should, could have set the bullets aside, but he was curious about them now. He sat cross-legged under the covers, rolling the bullets idly in his lap.  
  
“I know,” Wylan said. Less than convincing.  
  
“Anyway, if he did come back, he would be too busy disapproving of me to think about disapproving of you. He would disapprove of me, wouldn’t he?”  
  
“He… yes.”  
  
“Good,” Jesper sighed. “I’d hate to think I lived a life that made the likes of Jan Van Eck nod their heads.”  
  
He made the bullets fly up into his hand again.  
  
“You’re good at that.”  
  
“It’s not what I meant to do. Need more practice,” he said, giving Wylan a ‘you-told-me-so’ grin.  
  
Wylan’s returning grin was admittedly less than shining. He had something else on his mind.  
  
“It’s not an uncommon name, you know. Van Eck. There are loads of us in Kerch—not all related, it doesn’t have to mean him.”  
  
Jesper had not known that. He didn’t think much about Kerch family names, family names at all. They meant something, yes, but family to him meant people, not words. Family meant his ma and da, not the fact that he was Jesper after his maternal grandfather, Llewellyn like all firstborn sons in his family, Fahey from his da. He never thought about the fact his ma was Aditi Hilli and his da was Colm Fahey beyond that being who they were. Those were… words. Only words.  
  
He dropped the bullets into his lap again and this time tried to push them gently across the covers.  
  
“I can give most of it back,” Wylan said. “For the Grisha, too, I—I don’t know how, maybe there is a way to make an indenture fair? I can’t offer the same sort of protection just by employing someone, not the way I can for an indenture, but there has to be something I can do. And for my mama. The properties, the money—I can restore that. I can bring her home. It doesn’t fix everything, it doesn’t give her back the years, but I can bring her home. But I can’t make her a Van Eck again.”  
  
“I don’t think the name is the biggest issue.”  
  
“But it’s _hers_ , she’s entitled to it. He didn’t have the right—she should have everything given back to her.”  
  
“Her things would have been yours in time, you know.”  
  
“That’s not the point.”  
  
“It is the point,” Jesper insisted. His hand moved over his lap, directing the bullets. Slowly. “It is. She loves you.”  
  
Wylan sighed softly. “I’ll be a good son to her,” he said, “but I’m his son, too. I can’t fix her name. I need to keep mine for the business. She looked for me, Jes. What don’t I owe her?”  
  
That was so _Kerch_.  
  
“You don’t owe her anything. You didn’t steal from her.”  
  
He said the words with a pang. Jesper knew full well how it felt to steal from your own parents. The only difference was he had actually done it, told lies and run a game on his da to diminish his own debts.  
  
“What was it like after she left? When you were little?”  
  
Wylan went quiet for a moment. He shuffled his knees up to his chest. Jesper glanced at Wylan from the corner of his eye, but he continued rolling the bullets.  
  
Then, “Worse. I missed her. He missed her, too. Even if it was his fault, it was hard for him. I think he really loved her. He tried to help. When I whined it was hard on him, and it was unseemly, and he corrected me. I needed to move on, too. She wasn’t coming back.”  
  
“Sunshine… what exactly does ‘corrected’ mean?”  
  
Wylan looked away. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”  
  
Softly, Jesper asked, “Did he hit you?” He had stopped rolling the bullets now.  
  
Wylan began to gnaw at his thumb, then caught himself and stopped. He closed his fingers around his thumb, like a fist made by someone who had never in their life thrown a punch.  
  
_Help._ He had said that. _He tried to help._ Jan Van Eck’s “help” left his son this way, ashamed and afraid. It gave Jesper a cold, sick feeling.  
  
“I needed guidance. He saw how caught up I was in grief. It wasn’t healthy. It was distracting me from my lessons.”  
  
So he struck a child for mourning his mother because it led to low marks. Of course he did.  
  
Jesper scooped up the bullets. He set them down beside the revolvers they didn’t fit. He wanted to say that Jan Van Eck was a sick bastard. Most people who slapped children were sick bastards, but the way Wylan described it, Jesper knew he would defend his father. He didn’t have it in him to explain why that was wrong.  
  
“Da always held me when I was upset after my mother died,” Jesper said. He laid down under the covers, like he was going to sleep. He would, soon. Eventually. “I cried a lot. It felt like I cried all the time. He cried, too. Even years later. When I was thirteen, I remember looking at the blooming jurda like I had never seen it before, and I don’t know why but it made me think of her. I sat down in the field and cried. Da didn’t even ask. We had work to do but it didn’t matter. He sat beside me and held me until I was finished.”  
  
He had never mentioned that to anyone. It was private. It was also rarely relevant, and right now, talking about his da brought a familiar tight feeling to the back of his throat. Jesper wished Wylan had spent more time with Colm. Maybe they could go to Novyi Zem together… maybe Wylan could see what sort of father a real man was, someone who loved his son no matter his missteps, someone who loved his wife and knew grieving made him human, not weak. Jesper knew grief had torn at Colm. At the time, he didn’t understand, but he knew it now. The memories carried even more meaning in the knowing.  
  
He was also beginning to realize how much of being with Wylan meant teaching him.  
  
_This is how a good man raises his son.  
  
_Until Wylan could spend time with Colm, Jesper would talk about him. It hurt, but he would talk. It was what he did best. Second-best. _  
  
This is how a good husband loves his spouse.  
  
_Meaning Colm, of course. But Wylan needed to understand that, too, for his mother, what she should have had. _  
  
This is how to remember you matter.  
  
_It would take being told every day for a while. _  
  
This is how someone who loves you should put their hands on you._  
  
Gently. Lingering. Remembering how easily his skin took to a bruise and giving him time to feel the warmth of another human being.  
  
“I’m sorry you lost her, Jes. You deserve… _she_ deserved to watch you grow up.”  
  
Jesper’s response was a derisive snort. “There’s plenty it’s better she missed.”  
  
It actually hurt more to say than he had realized anything could. All those years he hid what he was. The fights he had enjoyed, every losing hand of cards… the _tattoos_. Jesper liked his tattoos, but he doubted his mother would have approved, especially of the crow and cup.  
  
“Okay,” Wylan agreed, which stung, until he continued, “she probably wouldn’t have wanted to hear you flirting with everything on two legs.”  
  
“Shut up, you like my flirting.”  
  
“I’m not your mother. But yes, I do. I like _you_ , because you’re brave and a good friend and funny. Are you happy here?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Then what else would she have wanted?”  
  
Jesper stared at him for a moment. He took in the reality of Wylan, his sweet Wylan, who wanted what was best for everyone and had a new explanation every day for why he deserved to be hit, arguing that all Jesper’s ma would have wanted was for him to be happy.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Once he had Wylan’s attention, Jesper motioned him over. Wylan turned out the lamp. In the dark, Jesper felt the bed shift and heard the rustle of sheets as Wylan laid down and scooted closer.  
  
Memories were stirring again. His mother’s face, her voice, the bright she brought into every room. It brought an ache that started to drown itself in the echo of Makker’s Wheel. He loved her, still loved her. He just didn’t want to hurt.  
  
Jesper reached for Wylan and grabbed an elbow, slid his hand to Wylan’s back and nudged him nearer. All he needed was the slightest suggestion. Wylan nestled his head close to Jesper’s shoulder and, knowing it was odd and not caring, Jesper inhaled the scent of Wylan. He needed something to wash away the bad feelings. Needed to drown in him.  
  
After a moment, Jesper said, “Do you remember what we were talking about last night?”  
  
“We—oh.”  
  
He remembered.  
  
“You really don’t need to prove—”  
  
“No, I said I would—”  
  
“And I trust you! I believe you!”  
  
“It’s important to me, Wy, I need you to know I won’t disappoint you.”  
  
“That is the one thing you are not capable of.”  
  
“Thank you. But I made a claim, I should prove it.”  
  
“That’s not necessary.”  
  
“Okay,” Jesper ceded. “Okay, I won’t… _if_ you say one of your profanity words.”  
  
He would swear he _felt_ Wylan gasp.  
  
“I… but they…”  
  
“Just one word.”  
  
Wylan squirmed. “F…”  
  
“Ooh, starting big!”  
  
A soft whimper. “Sh…”  
  
“You can do it.”  
  
“Ghezen’s—”  
  
“A real one, _not_ a religious one.”  
  
“F… no, I can’t,” Wylan said, defeated. “I can’t. Go ahead.”  
  
Jesper grinned… and began listing euphemisms. He did indeed have an impressive vocabulary. He recited euphemisms until Wylan began to shake, until he gave up fighting and laughed.


	9. Meeting the Parent. Again.

The next time Wylan saw Marya, she was painting. He suppressed a wince at the bruises on her wrists. She was out of bed, that was what mattered most. She was doing better.  
  
“You have a visitor, Marya,” the nurse chirped.  
  
She looked up from her painting. As soon as she saw Wylan, she recognized him and smiled. “My Wylan.”  
  
It was a simple thing, for someone’s mother to recognize them and hug them, but to Wylan it was everything. He held her tightly.  
  
“It’s good to see you again.”  
  
He would have asked what she was painting, but he knew.  
  
“Is that the lake house?”  
  
“It is,” Marya confirmed.  
  
The boy in front of it was Wylan. She was still painting him as a child. He wasn’t sure what to think about that. It was easier not to think about, just like how he was going to explain about Alys. Hopefully her parents would decide on divorce before things became too complicated.  
  
“Mama, are you feeling well today?”  
  
“Much better,” she said.  
  
Wylan nodded. He wound his fingers together to keep from pulling at the loose thread on his cuff.  
  
“Mama… I… Mama, please don’t be upset.”  
  
He had serious reservations about telling her this; he was afraid if she became upset, they would restrain her again. But it had to be done sooner or later, and he hoped, he hoped so much, that she would understand.  
  
“A few days ago, someone visited you from Cornelis Smeet, do you remember?”  
  
Marya’s jaw had gone tight. So had her grip on her paintbrush.  
  
She remembered.  
  
“That was—that was my friends. They lied to you. I’m sorry they lied. They don’t work for Smeet, not at all, I couldn’t come and I had to know that you were well. You spoke to my friend Kuwei, do you remember? The Shu boy?”  
  
He couldn’t tell the truth. It was too much—he couldn’t. Since Kuwei was in Ravka and wouldn’t need to confirm the story, Wylan reasoned it was a safe enough explanation. He hated lying to his mother, but… but what could he say?  
  
Marya gave a slow nod.  
  
“The other boy who visited was Zemeni, remember?”  
  
She did.  
  
“His name’s Jesper. He…”  
  
How exactly did one describe Jesper? That was the trouble, he was so much more than Wylan could put into words. He was a sparking bundle of life and love and cleverness wrapped up in beauty and bright plaid.  
  
Marya met Wylan’s eyes. She regarded him for a moment. Softly, she asked, “Is he good to you?”  
  
“Yes.” A shiver went through the word, fear and tension cracking as he realized that she knew. His mother had recognized not only him but something in him.  
  
“People should be good to you.”  
  
His throat felt tight and raw, like he had just finished crying or was trying not to start. For so long Wylan hadn’t heard from a parent that he was worth… anything. He was still getting used to the feeling.  
  
“He is. He makes me smile every day.”  
  
They had only had a few normal days, but, whether he knew it or not, Jesper had been making Wylan smile since the Ice Court. Those nights on the _Ferolind,_ when Kaz said visibility was low enough that Wylan could go and stand with Jesper a bit as long as he kept his mouth shut. Those nights had felt like they were saving his life sometimes. He knew Jesper was perplexed and a bit annoyed, but being close helped Wylan breathe—helped him forget about the strange face in the mirror, about the growing fears he harbored over seeing his father again.  
  
The days on Black Veil, when a smile felt like a betrayal of Inej, Wylan knowing better than anyone how far from well she would be, and of Kaz, who was terrifying but clearly suffering too. But Jesper was irresistible.  
  
“I’d like you to meet him. He’s here today if you’re ready—you don’t have to.”  
  
He wanted her to meet Jesper, to approve of him, and there was a spark of fear that had Wylan’s fingers so tightly wound together his knuckles were white.  
  
Wylan had woken up from a nightmare early that morning. In his dream, Jan had talked his way out of incarceration and come home to find Wylan in bed with a farmer’s son who couldn’t walk away from a wager. In the dream, Jan had curled his lip in disgust before hauling Wylan out of bed and down the hall to the office, where the Merchant Council was waiting to confirm that Wylan couldn’t read. The last thing he remembered was knowing the house guard had removed Jesper from the premises and Jan saying they were never going to see one another again before hurling Wylan to the ground.  
  
He had no reason to believe his mother felt the same way as the bad dream of his father had, but he had no reason to believe she felt otherwise, either. Maybe she would meet Jesper and see that they were good for one another, the way Colm had. At the very least, it couldn't be worse than when Jesper met Jan... right?  
  
Jesper had been so understanding about this, and Wylan couldn’t have been happier than he was when he told Jesper that Marya wanted to meet him. That didn’t stop him just about strangling Jesper’s hand as they approached his mother. This moment was perfect. But what about the next one? He needed so badly for Marya and Jesper to like one another—they were the two most important people in his life. He didn’t know what he would do if they didn’t get along.  
  
“Mama, this is Jesper. Jes, my mother, Marya Van Eck.”  
  
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Van Eck,” Jesper said, in what Wylan guessed was a copy of his own manners.  
  
Marya looked him over, then said, “My son says you make him happy.”  
  
“Mama,” Wylan objected weakly, pink flooding his cheeks. He hadn’t counted on her repeating that. He was _right there!_  
  
“I try,” Jesper said. “He makes me happy, too.”  
  
“You’re from Novyi Zem,” Marya surmised, likely—Wylan reasoned—from Jesper’s accent. Ketterdam was central to enough trade routes that being brown-skinned didn’t always mean foreign-born.  
  
“I came to Ketterdam to study at the university,” Jesper said, “but I had to take a semester off for financial reasons.”  
  
That was both true and not true. Jesper had dropped out of university because of his troubles, which caused financial difficulties—but Wylan wasn’t going to say anything. He appreciated Jesper being so direct about it.  
  
Marya looked at her painting, then at Wylan, then said, “There isn’t much to do here. They have cards.”  
  
“No!” Wylan blurted. They couldn’t play cards—Jesper hadn’t played a hand in weeks except Club Cumulus, and that had been awful. Some of it enforced by the Fjerda job, but there had been excitement there. Now he was in a quieter, less exciting life and Wylan hadn’t figured out yet how to keep Jesper happy.  
  
Judging from the looks they gave him, Jesper knew exactly what he meant, and Marya was unpleasantly puzzled.  
  
“What if we go for a walk?” he suggested, trying to redirect everyone’s attention.  
  
“They don’t like that,” Marya said.  
  
“Do you want to, though?”  
  
“It would be nice. But they don’t like that.”  
  
“Well—I’m paying, and I say we’re going for a walk.”  
  
There was, as expected, some objection to the idea, but Wylan was resolved. The windows were nice, but they were no substitution for freedom and fresh air, and he knew his mother wasn’t dangerous.  
  
She wasn’t always sensible, either. Most of what she said seemed logical enough, but occasionally she would comment on something they spotted, say something that Wylan didn’t understand. She came back, though.  
  
He wasn’t sure what had happened when her mood took a downturn.  
  
“Mama?”  
  
She began to cry softly. Wylan was torn, and he hated being torn: between wanting to comfort her and fearing this would be spotted and they would think she was ill again. After a frozen second and a half, Jesper nudged Wylan’s arm and offered him a handkerchief.  
  
_Thank you,_ Wylan mouthed.  
  
“Mama, what is it? You can tell me,” he said, offering her Jesper’s handkerchief. He appreciated not only that Jesper happened to have a handkerchief, but that he let Wylan be the one to give it to Marya.  
  
She shook her head, drying her eyes while she continued crying softly.  
  
“Your birthday.”  
  
The words startled him. He had forgotten…  
  
“Maybe we’ll have you home by then,” he said.  
  
She nodded. “That would be nice.”  
  
“What do you think we should do?”  
  
“We used to go to the harbor.”  
  
“We could go to the harbor again this year. Would you like that?”  
  
Now that she mentioned it, Wylan thought he could remember that, watching the last rays of his birthday sunshine sinking over the horizon. He hadn’t looked forward to birthdays for a long time. Even before his mother went away, birthdays had become a mark of his failure.  
  
He still couldn’t read.  
  
He was 7 and he still couldn’t read or write his own name. That was a bit behind schedule. It was time to get serious, wasn’t it, Wylan?  
  
He was 8 and he still couldn’t read or write his own name. This was becoming an indication of something larger that was amiss with him.  
  
He was 10 and he still couldn’t read or write his own name. Double digits was quite serious, wasn’t it? The end of the last lingering shreds of childhood. If ever he was going to show any capacity, this would be the time to do so.  
  
He was 12 and he still couldn’t read or write his own name. Should the depth of his failure escape him, he was becoming a man, wasn’t he? (He had been sitting in his father’s office, struggling not to squirm to hear the strange changes his body was going through referred to that way. Or at all.) Did he understand that part of being a man was creating children? (He had felt his face blistering.) Did he understand that he was unsuited to that endeavor, that his defect rendered him insufficient?  
  
Wylan batted away the memories, instead focusing on his upcoming birthday. His mother would be home well before it, he promised himself, and they would do whatever she wanted. She had done the hard work after all. Carried him. Given him birth. He had just showed up and cried. It was her day really.  
  
“Mama?” She hadn’t responded. “We’ll do anything you want for my birthday, anything, whatever makes you happy.”  
  
Gently, like she was breaking bad news to a child, “My sweet boy. No. Your papa will never allow it.”  
  
Wylan had stopped thinking of him as Papa years ago. He was Father. A biological fact. But he realized his mother hadn’t known that, had never heard him call Jan by that name. Wylan had been too little when she left, too innocent.  
  
He swallowed nervously. What he needed to tell his mother would be startling news. He hadn’t mentioned it before—because he was afraid. What if she was too upset by it? What if he promised she could home and she couldn’t? Now how to tell her mixed with another question: how to refer to the man.  
  
“Pa…”  
  
He couldn’t.  
  
He _couldn’t._  
  
It was the name he used when he was still a stupid little kid who tried and tried to be a better son, when he thought he and… and that man were on the same side against bad circumstance and that he could be enough. When he thought he could be what brought back the papa who loved him, smiled at him, had a gentle hand and kind words. It hurt, remembering now, in a dull, broad sort of pain: once Wylan didn’t realize he was the problem and believed he could be the solution.  
  
“Jan is in prison.”  
  
Yes—that felt better.  
  
“He entered negotiations in bad faith. I control the company now.”  
  
After everything Jan Van Eck had done, Wylan didn’t like that he had been arrested for that, for bad faith negotiations. What about Inej? Wylan didn’t know what happened, but he didn’t have to know details. He understood his father. Why was a man allowed to kidnap her, to take someone so strong and wise and good, and to hurt them, and that wasn’t as bad as bad faith negotiations? Why was he allowed to say his wife was mad, to take her land and money and void their marriage, and no one even spoke to her about it, and that wasn’t as bad as bad faith negotiations?  
  
Why hadn’t he said it was Wylan? The question nipped at his heels. Why couldn’t he have just told people Wylan died and sent him to this place instead? Why punish his mother?  
  
“I know you’re not mad,” Wylan said. He promised. “I want you to come home. If that’s what you want. Do you want to come home?”  
  
She stared at him for a moment, then glanced around, furtive. Her eyes landed too long on Jesper, suspicious, and Wylan wished he didn’t understand. The lie they told once would be hard to overcome.  
  
Hesitant, she nodded.  
  
Overall, Wylan thought it was a good visit. His mama mostly knew what was happening around her. She had recognized Wylan. They talked about the future and she believed it would be better, which left him newly resolved to ensure that it was. The very least he owed her was making good on that promise.  
  
And yet…  
  
And yet, as they walked back to the docks, Jesper was scowling and running his hands over his revolvers. Wylan registered his mood—was it because Marya was suspicious of him? He registered his hands and felt a brief flash of envy. Hands on his revolvers. Wylan would have preferred them on him—he was ashamed of the thought almost immediately.  
  
“Jes, slow down.”  
  
He was walking too quickly, taking long, brisk strides that Wylan’s shorter legs could only keep up with at a jog.  
  
He didn’t slow down.  
  
“Jesper.”  
  
Jesper kept his pace, frowning at something in the middle distance. Wylan raised his hand to his mouth but caught himself before he bit his thumb again.  
  
“Are you punishing me?” The words came out smaller than Wylan intended.  
  
Jesper stopped and turned abruptly. It was an easy move for him, but Wylan had been at a different gait, and awkward. He tried to stop, but his heels skidded and he fell. The right thing to do was to pick himself up. Wylan was just… confused. He didn’t understand the sudden shift like the way the sun was too much in his eyes now and blinked, trying to sort through it all.  
  
Jesper’s expression softened as he pulled Wylan out of the dirt.  
  
“I’m not your father, Wy. I’m not going to hit you.”  
  
“I know,” Wylan said, resettling his satchel.  
  
“Normal people don’t do that.”  
  
“I _know_. I was—the sun was in my eyes.” And he had been on the ground, and Jesper was just so _tall_ standing over him and it made him feel little and—it was the sun. The sun got in his eyes. He was at such a bad angle, looking almost straight up.  
  
“And I wasn’t going to lose my shirt gambling with your _mother_.”  
  
Oh.  
  
“I know,” Wylan said, “and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it that way. It isn’t just about today though. I don’t think someone… someone like you, someone…”  
  
“Someone so perfect?” Jesper prompted. “So delightful? So handsome?”  
  
Wylan laughed and shook his head, appreciative of the levity even if there was a note of bitterness in it. “But that’s just it, Jes. You can’t just be good, you’re great. You can’t be nice to look at, you’re so handsome a man could go blind from it. I don’t think it’ll ever be just one hand of cards.”  
  
It was hard to say because he knew it would be hard for Jesper to hear—and for the same reason, it was necessary for Jesper to hear. Wylan felt he had neglected Jesper’s needs the past few days. Everything going on with his mother and learning about the empire and the indentured Grisha, they had just been busy. It wasn’t an excuse. It was something Wylan needed to recognize and amend.  
  
Jesper sighed. “Maybe,” he allowed. “I don’t want to go down that road again, so why don’t you tell me more about how handsome I am?”  
  
“Well—let’s start with your hands.”  
  
“My hands?”  
  
“Mmm. You have great hands.”  
  
“Because they’re so strong?”  
  
“Partly.”  
  
“What do you mean, partly?”  
  
“They’re also warm. Calloused, but in a nice way, that emphasizes how gentle you can be. You are. Gentle, I mean, you’re always gentle with me.”  
  
“I didn’t know you were paying such close attention, merchling.”  
  
Wylan laughed. “Yes you did.”  
  
“I did,” Jesper admitted. “Come on. Tell me something else about my hands.”  
  
“Are you sure? I can move on to your wrists if you like, or tell you more about those nice callouses.”  
  
“Nice, huh?”  
  
Wylan looked around. No one but the two of them. He looked at Jesper briefly—his face, his hands—then the ground. Blushing and staring at the ground, he said, “They’re sexy.”


	10. Half-snickering Mutant Dance Conglomerate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what I'm getting from last chapter is y'all like bold Wylan, and I promise he'll be back... eventually.

Inej enjoyed a clear schedule. Every day, she woke up knowing she could do what she liked. She could stay in bed until noon, or eat a bag of toffees, or eat a bag of toffees in bed at noon—she missed Nina. She could stay up reading books from Wylan’s library, knowing tomorrow didn’t bring a job or a new threat.  
  
There was a lot to like about the merch lifestyle, but her favorite part about it wasn’t new. Her favorite part was the time with her friends. Things moved more slowly here. Time lingered. They lingered.  
  
Tonight found the three of them in the music room yet again, a careful stack of dirty dishes on an end table.  
  
She wasn’t sure how they got to this subject, only that for some reason Jesper was saying:  
  
“I’ll learn to play the piano and you learn to dance the minuet.”  
  
“I know how to dance the minuet,” Wylan told him.  
  
“But you said—you _lied_ ,” Jesper gasped. He turned to Inej. “This is Kaz’s doing, he’s thoroughly corrupted him.”  
  
Inej laughed.  
  
“It wasn’t a lie,” Wylan objected, pink-faced. “I said no one danced the minuet, and they don’t. I never said I didn’t know how.”  
  
“Prove it, then.”  
  
Wylan wriggled awkwardly in his seat, then sighed, stood, and took a deep breath. He had gone from pink to pinker.  
  
Inej sat up a little straighter, curious. She knew how to dance, a bit, but she knew the sorts of dances worked barefoot. She knew dances shared amongst groups, or the way her parents held each other and swayed to gentle notes.  
  
“You have to imagine the music,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper and Inej nodded.  
  
“And I’ll need your hat.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because… because your hair is pretty and I want to look at it,” Wylan managed, his voice high. More his normal self he added, “And because an important part of the minuet is removing your hat.”  
  
Inej laughed before she could stop herself.  
  
“I _know_ but it shows proper manners,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper surrendered his hat.  
  
With a very proper bow, Wylan extended a single hand to Inej. She hadn’t expected that. She took his hand, though, and let him help her to her feet. It gave her a strange feeling. Inej was not what anyone would call a lady. Jan Van Eck had made that perfectly clear, and anyone else on Geldstraat who knew of her former circumstances would agree. Kaz never looked down on her, but he didn’t treat her with this measured elegance, either. It brought a light, strange feeling to her chest.  
  
_It’s just play,_ she reminded herself, but she still felt like she had stepped into someone else’s shoes. They were very comfortable shoes, but startling, different.  
  
“When I offer you my hand, you’ll take it lightly,” Wylan instructed. “Not like we’re holding hands. More like we’re… flirting.”  
  
Inej nodded.  
  
“Then just—follow my feet, okay?”  
  
“I’ll manage.”  
  
She could walk a tightrope suspended high above the ground. How hard could a dance be?  
  
Wylan counted out the music: “ _One_ two three four _five_ six seven eight _one_ two three four…”  
  
Which was strange at first, but Inej quickly came to see it as useful. The stressed notes helped make sense of the steps. They were not complicated, but took a few tries to manage, then to remember. She did not have the skirts she imagined were meant for this dance, something light and grand that lent itself to a graceful curtsy, but she wanted to play that role.  
  
For once, Wylan was being a proper merchant, and Inej wanted to join in this act. So she pantomimed a skirt to match her curtsy.  
  
She moved through the steps carefully, both of them slow at first, Wylan’s pace matching hers.  
  
“Good,” he said.  
  
Inej gave a low laugh. “I don’t trip,” she said.  
  
“You’re naturally graceful and a fast learner,” Wylan replied.  
  
As they circled one another slowly, she thought there _was_ an appeal to this sort of thing. It was slow, steady, graceful. But that was not the part she so liked. She liked the feeling of her fingers on his skin, the light touch, the way he only just barely held her fingers in his. She imagined how this would feel with Kaz.  
  
A silly thought, she knew. Even without his gloves, Kaz would never do something so silly and sentimental. She wouldn’t have entirely minded the gloves, either. It wasn’t only the skin touching that mattered but what she felt, how each of her partner’s movements seemed channeled into little tics and nudges through his palm.  
  
Kaz could…  
  
Jesper cleared his throat. Inej didn’t know when he had left his seat and come to stand beside her, but he was here now, beside her with a polite, “Excuse me, but I believe that’s my merchling you’ve got your hands on.”  
  
Inej smiled. Of course Jesper needed to phrase it that way.  
  
Wylan’s blush returned with a vengeance.  
  
“We can all dance,” he suggested.  
  
“Not the minuet. That’s for couples,” Inej observed.  
  
Wylan gave her a small smile. “Only when you follow the rules.”  
  
It was ridiculous. Utterly, utterly ridiculous. They shared a bastardized minuet, cobbling steps together, gentle turns and light touches of hands. Despite the foolishness, however, there was still grace. Inej and Jesper both knew their own bodies and were fluid in motion. Usually Wylan wasn’t, but he knew this dance. They used the basics to keep in time, to turn a couples dance into a group effort.

It felt… good.  
  
It felt _fun_.  
  
She felt strangely happy as part of this half-snickering mutant dance conglomerate and enjoyed the togetherness, even if she did laugh as hard as anyone after they had collapsed onto the settee, squeezed in together. Jesper was in the middle and Inej noticed Wylan dropping a gentle tap-tap-tap on his knee.  
  
“What other skills are you keeping secret, then?” Jesper asked Wylan. “He did say he didn’t play the piano,” he told Inej.  
  
“I didn’t! I said I play the flute. I do play the flute.”  
  
She was starting to realize that he had something of a talent for deceptive honesty.  
  
“No chance I was going to spend a month getting called a _pianist_.”  
  
“You deprived me—!” Jesper cried, indignant. “I feel betrayed.”  
  
Wylan shrugged. “Inej read my mail. Join the club.”  
  
“You knew about that?” Inej asked. She wasn’t sorry. The girl she was two years ago might have been sorry—would have been sorry—but Inej understood the Barrel now. Having his mail read in trade for being kept safe? That was a small price to pay.  
  
If anything, she was surprised Wylan hadn’t mentioned it before, surprised he had figured that out.  
  
“Not at first,” Wylan said. “At first, I thought it was a coincidence his first letter arrived the day after I refused to help Kaz. Then I thought it… might be the hand of Ghezen, but I know it was you.”  
  
He didn’t sound like he minded.  
  
Inej considered pointing out that it wasn’t like she or Kaz had understood, anyway. They thought Jan Van Eck wrote to entreat his son to return home. Since Wylan didn’t sound resentful or bitter, though, she let it be.  
  
“Does that make Inej the hand of Ghezen?” Jesper asked.  
  
“Jesper,” Wylan objected.  
  
“Small hands for a god.”  
  
“Big enough to squish you,” Inej retorted.  
  
Jesper scoffed. “Try it,” he challenged.  
  
So Inej threw herself across his lap, feeling not at all sorry for landing so hard on his thighs. Jesper responded with a mix of an indignant shout and a bark of laughter. He wasn’t squished. He _was_ pushed a bit, and Wylan leapt to catch the plates before anything crashed to the ground.  
  
“Why don’t I take these to the kitchen,” he suggested.  
  
They all did little things like that, the sorts of chores that would have been second nature at home for Inej and Jesper. It wasn’t how merchants behaved. Maybe it ought to be.  
  
“Look, Inej, you’ve upset Wylan.”  
  
“I’m not upset,” Wylan objected, “I just don’t want the plates broken.”  
  
“But Inej took your seat,” Jesper said.  
  
Wylan froze, a deep red making its slow creep up his neck.  
  
“I’ll take the plates to the kitchen.”  
  
He was still wearing Jesper’s hat and it made his ducked head look almost mournful. Inej knew he was only embarrassed.   
  
Jesper tugged Inej’s braid. “Get off me already, squishy.”  
  
“You’re acknowledging I can squish you, then?”  
  
“I’m acknowledging,” Jesper ceded.  
  
Inej hopped off his lap.  
  
The mood had shifted somewhat with just the two of them here. Jesper was a friend, maybe the only friend Inej had left in Ketterdam. She wasn’t sure how things stood with her and Kaz, and had a sort of nascent friendship with Wylan. Jes she knew, trusted.  
  
Worried about.  
  
“You seem happy,” she said, settling beside him again.  
  
“I am happy. I won’t… there won’t be an echo.”  
  
Inej gave him a tight smile—one that said she believed him, but recognized it would be a tough road to walk.  
  
“Colm should be back in Novyi Zem soon.”  
  
“Another couple of days,” Jesper said. Apparently he saw through the thin veil across Inej’s thoughts, because he added, “And Nina in Ravka.”  
  
Inej nodded.  
  
She would miss her friend. She _did_ miss her friend. She missed chatting with her, missed the way Nina just understood, missed the way they laughed. And Nina… she would be in pain. Inej thought about all those days on the _Ferolind_ when she was weak from blood loss, still healing after Oomen caught her on the docks. Those days had been horrible, the pain, the weakness, but Nina was there, making it bearable, helping Inej smile. It meant all the more because she knew how hard it had been for Nina, who was not a Healer, but doing her best.  
  
“Nina is a born soldier,” Inej said. “When she puts her heart to a cause, nothing stops her. I know she’ll do a lot of good.”  
  
She just hoped that with all the good she did, Nina could find peace. The specter of Matthias’s death hung heavy in the air between them, but Inej didn’t name it.  
  
Just like she didn’t mention Kaz and hoped Jesper wouldn’t either.  
  
“You’re one of her causes, too,” Jesper said. Then, quickly, “That came out wrong. I meant, I think she’s equally dedicated to you, to your friendship. I’m sure she’ll write.”  
  
Inej nodded. “I hope so.”  
  
Jesper began to laugh.  
  
“What?”  
  
“I imagine she has terrible handwriting.”  
  
“Her handwriting is fine! You know she had a proper education at the Little Palace.”  
  
“I know,” Jesper said, “and I’m sure she can write beautifully, when she tries. But I imagine her _real_ handwriting is a mess. Besides, education doesn’t always equal good penmanship. I was at university long enough to see plenty of professors’ handwriting.”  
  
“Will you go back?” Inej asked.  
  
“To the university?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
She knew Jesper was happy enough for now being here… but she knew Jesper, too. He didn’t stay still this long. The itch would set in again and he would need something to soothe it.  
  
Jesper shrugged, a hand scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I hadn’t thought about it. I didn’t take the money from the job, so…”  
  
So he couldn’t afford to just leap into it. Inej hadn’t considered that. She could dream her dreams. She was wealthy. Was soon to be wealthy? She hadn’t even checked yet if the funds were in her account yet.  
  
What sort of life had Jesper returned to, then? The same but in a new place? What was he going to do tomorrow or the next day?  
  
Inej wondered all of this with a twinge. When she imagined being off on her ship taking down slavers, she hadn’t thought to imagine where her friend would be. How he would be. What he would do. She hadn’t asked herself if Jesper had a plan.  
  
“We don’t need to talk about this,” Jesper said. “I’ll find something, Inej. I always do.”  
  
“Sure,” she agreed.  
  
She was sure that if Jesper wanted finish his degree, Wylan or Colm would support him emotionally as well as financially, but that it wouldn’t be the same. Dependence, debts, no matter who to, were one thing both Inej and Jesper understood the need to avoid.  
  
And yes, she trusted Jesper to find something, but she worried about what that something might be.  
  
But he changed the subject, and she was happy enough to go along with him, to talk the way they used to, just to be with him. It wasn’t so different from being in the Slat again on a good night. The food had been better and the room was considerably more lavish, but Inej was Inej, Jesper was Jesper. The familiarity settled comfortably around her.  
  
She wasn’t sure how long they had been talking when she found herself yawning for the fifth time.  
  
“That’s it,” Inej decided, “I need some sleep.”  
  
“Same,” Jesper admitted. “Well—first I need to figure out where my merchling went.” It _had_ been a while since Wylan took the plates to the kitchen.  
  
She smiled. “He’s your merchling now, hm?”  
  
Jesper waved an indifferent hand. “My merchling, the merchling…”  
  
“My merchling.”  
  
He gave her a look.  
  
Inej giggled. “Told you. No, don’t look like that, it’s nice that you show people you care about them. I like you two together. You sound… happy.”  
  
They wished each other a good night. Jesper hugged her, something Inej didn’t expect, but appreciated. They parted ways. Inej would head upstairs. She had somehow thought she might get some reading done tonight. Obviously that plan was made by another Inej, one who didn’t lose herself in the ridiculous antics Jesper and Wylan seemed to spark to life every night—singing, dancing. Always something with those two.  
  
She headed up the stairs tiredly, taking her time. It was… nice. It was nice to push her energy so low without fear of reprisal; in the Barrel, she would have been running on adrenaline, catching a few minutes’ sleep where she could. Inej had worked hard to make herself valuable to the Dregs. That didn’t mean she loved the life. This, enjoying herself, it was—it was just fine, she thought.  
  
Just fine indeed.  
  
“Inej?”  
  
She paused. Jesper was at the foot of the stairs, looking… worried. Maybe scared.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s Wylan. He’s—I don’t know. I need your help.”


	11. Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: emotional abuse (graphic recollection), physical abuse (implied)

Wylan stood frozen, looking at an echo. He had mostly avoided the dining room, only catching it in glimpses through the hole in the office floor. There was no reason to come here; the three of them were better suited to a casual place, anyway. But he was going to need to have the room fixed up eventually. If he was going to be the head of a company, if he was going to be a member of the Merchant Council, if he was truly going to take his place as Jan Van Eck’s heir, he would at some point have a guest over, another merchant…  
  
He couldn’t not have a dining room.  
  
He just hadn’t anticipated that he would feel it so strongly being back in this room. It had caught him and he was stuck and he couldn’t shake loose. His head was tilting, or the room was spinning…  
  
“Wylan!”  
  
Wylan jerked his head up. The room or his head went quiet suddenly still. He had a lurching feeling of nausea. Jesper and Inej stood in the doorway. How long had they been there?  
  
How long had he been here?  
  
He expected a joke. This would be a very good time to smile. A challenging time, too, he didn’t feel like a smile just about now, but Jesper had a gift for making anyone smile at any time.  
  
Except—Jesper had so many names for him. Names he would call anyone: gorgeous, beautiful. Names just for him: merchling, coppercurls, Wy, sunshine, starlight.  
  
So many names, but Jesper had called him _Wylan_.  
  
Inej stepped forward silently and asked, “What happened in this room, Wylan?”  
  
Wylan swallowed a lump in his throat that didn’t go away.  
  
“The worst,” he whispered. He took a tiny step toward the table. “He was remarried within a year. I was supposed to take a tonic, but I hated it. It tasted awful, made me feel sick. I refused. He insisted and I knocked it away, but I knocked the glass over—he was angry.”  
  
Wylan swallowed again. That hadn’t been the first night he was expected to take the tonic. He knew he had been a brat about it, too, shoving the glass like that.  
  
His fingertips played gently on the table. Tracing a path. Keeping his eyes focused here, away from his friends’ faces. He thought if he answered he would seem okay. He couldn’t just stand there silently like a podge.  
  
“It’s okay, Wylan.”  
  
She kept saying his name. He hadn’t forgotten…  
  
Didn’t she understand? It _wasn’t_ okay, what he did. It wasn’t okay that he lost control now. But the memories were coming and he couldn’t stop them, like they were rolling downhill and he had nothing with which to divert them, no time to build a wedge and send them sailing overhead…  
  
“It hadn’t come cheap. I was wrong to spill it, but he—it was just too much for him. _You are worse than worthless. You are a debt. Do you understand what I do for you? What would happen to you if anyone knew of your incompetence? You are a stain on my good name. Useless, simpering idiot!_ ”  
  
Jan had smacked the table, and it was Wylan this time, Jan’s words in Wylan’s mouth, Wylan’s hand coming down—he didn’t understand why. He wasn’t certain what he even meant to do. He slammed the table the way his father had and managed not to hiss at the pain of it but Ghezen’s good fortune that stung!  
  
“He made me—clean it. He made me clean up.”  
  
There was a long, almost confused pause. Wylan heard it above the blood thumping in his ears. With a hot rush of shame he realized his eyes were dampening and blinked quickly, refusing to cry. There had been something—something in Inej’s tone, in the room, in its oppressive quiet, that made Wylan forget consequences were coming. He remembered now—where he was, who he had just told.  
  
“He made you clean the table?” Jesper asked, a hint of laughter creeping into his voice.  
  
Wylan wouldn’t look at him.  
  
“Jesper,” Inej said.  
  
“Oh, come on. He might have said some miserable things, but that’s hardly the worst punishment. For most kids, clearing the table is a regular chore.”  
  
“Do most kids use their tongues?” Wylan snapped, turning to look at him now. Challenging. It was enough to shut Jesper up. Wylan read the startle in his eyes, the surprise. That was Jesper: hot emotions, strong and sudden. Inej registered this with cool acceptance.  
  
A part of Wylan regretted his tone, a part that would take over later, when the anger faded. But now he was angry. He was angry because of what had been done to him, he was angry because he had been so afraid, he was angry because he was tense near to shaking and because he didn’t like being dismissed that way. He was angry because the words were on his tongue now and he didn’t think he could stop them coming, and he was scared of what Jesper and Inej would think of him.  
  
“The floor, too. The whole spill. All those specialists, tutors, medicines, they’re expensive. They’re useless. Resources wasted on a moron, Ghezen frowns on waste. _I’ll tell you when it’s clean. Did I say you were through? Stop crying! You can clean that, too. Stop it. You brought this on yourself. Too stupid to write your own name. Too lazy to even try. You think this is difficult for **you**? I am the one who must live with this defective for a son, I am the one whose legacy will be squandered by an idiot mistake. You are useless to me. Shut up! Bad enough to have the mind of an infant, must you snivel like one, too? Stop that! Stop crying!_”  
  
His foot swept out, catching on a chair and sending it clattering. Wylan was shaking now. He didn’t understand what was happening or why he had needed to say those words. Maybe they were just too loud inside his head. Maybe he could spew them out like poison and be finished with them.  
  
He could remember an awful lot when he set his mind to it. Forgetting was a trick he had yet to master.  
  
Something inside of him was broken.  
  
Something gave way.  
  
His legs went weak and Wylan sat hard on the floor, gripping his elbows. He clenched his jaw and fought not to cry, tried not to think about what he looked like now, but he couldn’t bring himself to move, either. The thought of what his friends saw ghosted by. Would settle later. Not that he didn’t already know.  
  
_Useless_.  
  
It wasn’t like they hadn’t known, after all. Back when they thought he was just some spoiled runaway—the former had been, well, not untrue—they knew Wylan didn’t amount to much. He could tell himself all he wanted that he had grown, he was different, he had _helped_ but—  
  
“Wylan.” The voice was gentle, accompanied by a cool hand pressed against his burning face. “It’s over now. You’re here with us. It’s over. He’s gone.”  
  
He focused: Inej crouched in front of him, her expression steady, unreadable. The urge to cry crashed over him.  
  
“Breathe.”  
  
He hadn’t realized he wasn’t, but when he opened his mouth, he gasped in air like he had been drowning. He gulped ragged, uneven mouthfuls. He still felt like he was drowning, like something had closed over his head and he didn’t know the way out, but Inej was there and she was calm. She looked so assured that they were safe, it gave him a shred of confidence in the same.  
  
She kept her left hand against his cheek and shifted her right knuckles, pressing them to his forehead and the other side of his face until the burn of humiliation receded.  
  
“Wylan?” Jesper asked. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for too long, and now he said it again. _Wylan_. Wylan was afraid to look at him, afraid of what he might see. He was aware of Jesper sitting nearby but not quite beside him.  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
Inej glanced at Jesper.  
  
“It’s not your fault,” Jesper said.  
  
Of course it was his fault.  
  
“He wasn’t usually like that, it was the only time he lost control. He tried to teach me, but that night I went too far. I shouldn’t have knocked over the glass. I was thirteen, I was too old for a tantrum, I…”  
  
“You were being a brat,” Jesper agreed, “and you were due punishment for it. Your father could’ve sent you to bed without supper or cancelled your science lessons or whatever a normal merch does to punish his son. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to say those things.”  
  
The words were barely audible: “I wouldn’t learn.”  
  
“Horseshit. You learned everything you could. He was the miserable son of a bitch who refused to see that and couldn’t treat his own son like a human being.”  
  
Wylan wasn’t sure what to say to that. It didn’t sound right, but it didn’t sound illogical either. Shiver after shiver racked his body as he fought back the urge to cry. Everything just hurt so much.  
  
“Jesper?”  
  
“Right here.”  
  
Wylan didn’t know if Jesper would understand what he meant, but he didn’t know how else to say it, what words he could use. He couldn’t say the truth outright. He feared too much to say it.  
  
Instead, softly, he said, “I’m cold.”  
  
_If you were cold, you only had to say._  
  
Did he remember?  
  
If he did, would he pretend otherwise?  
  
Wylan wouldn’t blame him. That was really the worst in all of this, not the weakness but Jesper seeing it. Seeing that Wylan wasn’t who he thought.  
  
Jesper remembered. He shifted closer and pulled Wylan against him. An arm around his back, holding his shoulders. An arm across his front, holding him together. He wished he could stop shaking.  
  
Wylan hated lying. He tried so hard to pick his words carefully, to tell a half-truth if he couldn’t be honest. But he had lied to one of the most important people in his life. He had lied to Jesper when he let on that he was… that he wasn’t… like this.  
  
A steady, reassuring presence settled against his left side: Inej, her hands over Wylan’s, easing his too-tight grip on his elbows.  
  
Wylan always thought it was hyperbole when people said they thought their hearts might burst, but his certainly felt full to bursting now. He didn’t know the last time he felt this safe, this accepted, this _not alone_. He knew that, as a child, he hadn’t felt unsafe. It was different now, knowing how cold and alone felt and being brought so far from them.  
  
“Thank you, Jesper. Thank you, Inej.”  
  
“You owe us so many waffles.”  
  
“Shevrati,” Inej muttered. “There is no debt.”  
  
“I’m sorry I can’t be strong like you.”  
  
“I’m grateful you aren’t,” Inej said.  
  
They sat together on the floor for a while. Thoughts drifted through Wylan’s mind idly. The acceptance he felt now. The fear it wouldn’t last. The sense around him that this was the same cold, empty place with the same frightening echoes but here the three of them were warm and bright and could stave off those echoes.  
  
“Wylan? Sunshine?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Let’s go to bed. This will all look better in the morning, okay, gorgeous?”  
  
Hearing Jesper’s flirtatious nicknames in that sedated tone was almost worse than not hearing them at all. He always played, but it was so genuine. The spark was out of his voice.  
  
Wylan had hated everything that made Jesper’s smile crumple in on itself. With all that had happened, how could he have been the worst? Yet he didn’t doubt that he was.  
  
_I’m sorry, Jes, I’m so sorry I hurt you. I’ll never do it again. Please don’t leave me._  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
He didn’t ask for it, but Jesper helped him to his feet. His brain struggled to control his body, too busy slogging through memories and words that landed harsh against him.  
  
Jesper was upset. Dimmed.  
  
Wylan always messed everything up.  
  
His father said as much, even though Wylan—he tried. He didn’t know how to make anything better! He remembered after dinner parties when he had been corrected for saying too little, keeping too much to himself. It was rude. And he remembered, too, other lessons after he allowed a conversation to stray too close to books and reading. He just wasn’t very good. He was an awkward, inherently unpleasant boy, and despite his father’s best efforts Wylan simply refused to learn how to control a conversation—  
  
_You learned everything you could._  
  
He had _tried_.  
  
He had tried but it wasn’t good enough! He wasn’t…  
  
Wylan squeezed Inej’s hand once before letting his fingers trail away. “Good night, Inej.”  
  
“Good night, Wylan. I’ll pray for you.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
He didn’t fully understand Inej’s Saints, but had the sense they stood beside her while Ghezen preferred to watch and assess. Though it wasn’t his religion, Wylan appreciated her prayers. He thought… Ghezen wouldn’t care. Another time he would ask Inej about that, what her Saints could be prayed to about, what they did, what they were like.  
  
He realized he had put little thought into other religions before. He had simply learned that they were false and wrong and their adherents were backwards, but his friends had shown him otherwise. Thoughtful, brave Matthias had followed what Jan called a “ridiculous, ignorant cult about a tree”. Wise, strong, amazing Inej believed in “folktales spread by simpletons who cannot understand science”. The only true god, the only god an intelligent man believed in, was Ghezen. Ghezen rewarded the works of men, not the ignorance of peasants.  
  
Now Wylan found himself curious.  
  
It was much easier to be curious about that.  
  
Better than being curious about Jesper, who had never behaved this way before. He was quiet. He kept one arm around Wylan’s shoulders, the other twitching at the buttons on his shirt or tapping whatever bits of woodwork they passed.  
  
A part of Wylan was grateful. He didn’t have to think about what to do next. Jesper guided him toward the stairs. When he spotted a maid, Jesper asked to have tea sent up for them. Things that used to be second nature to Wylan felt strange now, but Jesper had taken to them like a fish to water. Or like a Jesper to a fountain of champagne, equally fitting.  
  
When they were alone, door closed between them and the rest of the house, Wylan said, softly, “I’ll do better, Jesper.”  
  
“Don’t say that!”  
  
Wylan flinched.  
  
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It's not you, Wy.”  
  
Wylan nodded, but… how could it not be him? After tonight, after he just lost control so badly he was sitting on the dining room floor shaking? How had his friends ever trusted him? If they had seen him here, like that, before the Ice Court job, they would have let him die in the Barrel. Maybe they should have. At least after that ridiculous display they understood why his father lost patience.  
  
He toyed with a stray thread at his cuff. He knew he shouldn’t pick at it, but it didn’t hurt to just… move the thread a bit. Just to shift it around.  
  
“I don’t mean to be like that. It crept up on me. It—”  
  
“Hey. Look at me,” Jesper said, taking Wylan’s face in his hands and tilting it, gently forcing Wylan to meet his eyes. Something trembling in Wylan cracked down the middle. Whatever he thought he would see in Jesper’s eyes, it wasn’t there. Fear. Concern. But not revulsion. “Stay with me. I’ll stay with you but you have to stay with me.”  
  
“Yes,” Wylan agreed.  
  
A soft knock at the door told them the tea was here. Wylan wasn’t entirely coherent, so Jesper took the tray, exchanged a few words with the same maid he had spoken to earlier—Wylan was fairly certain he knew her name, he just couldn’t place it right now. He used those moments to pull a few deep, shuddering breaths into his chest. He was, he thought, starting to feel more like himself.  
  
The problem with breaking down was that it was shameful. _It’s shame that eats men alive._ Well, yes, it was, but this time Wylan was ashamed because he had been genuinely weak. How could he show Jesper that wasn’t who he was?  
  
And Inej.  
  
But right now, Jesper.  
  
Jesper’s fingers tapped a rhythm on his revolvers, the way they did when he was bored or itching for another game. He picked up a cup of tea, then put it down, undrunk, and went back to that same tapping.  
  
“Remember when we made that drill out of a stolen diamond and broken bits of a winch?” Wylan blurted.  
  
The look Jesper gave him said that yes, he did. And that he was very confused to have it brought up just now.  
  
_Remember that time I was helpful in breaking out of the Ice Court, which is supposed to be impossible? Because I’m not useless?_  
  
Wylan gulped a mouthful of too much tea and swallowed quickly. It scalded down his throat, but didn’t quite burn anything.  
  
“I was useful. I helped. Just—try to remember that. Please. I’m not who you saw tonight.”  
  
Jesper had watched patiently while Wylan tried to put the words together. Now he said, “I know who you are. Tonight didn’t change my opinion about you. Your father is a monster.”  
  
“He wasn’t always so bad,” Wylan insisted, suddenly wondering if he should have told them about what happened. “He wanted to help me. He just lost control of himself. The tonic—”  
  
“No,” Jesper interrupted, sounding so resolute Wylan startled. His tea sloshed in his cup, but managed not to spill. “No, Wylan. No more defending him. He hurt you because he’s a mean son of a bitch. He went out of his way to do the worst things he could. Your mother. The letters. The way he kept you alone and afraid. He didn’t deserve you for a son, and he doesn’t deserve your loyalty or your defense. Keep your stupid waffles. Promise me you’ll stop saying what he did was okay.”  
  
“Jesper…”  
  
“Promise me.”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Wylan sipped his tea. It was cooler now, and he noticed it was sweetened with honey instead of sugar. It soothed his throat.  
  
Softly, he said, “You called waffles stupid.”  
  
“Now you know what happens when I lose my temper.”


	12. The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got away from me a bit, but so much needed to happen and there was no natural place to split it.

Jesper woke up early the next morning. Wylan was still asleep, curled away from him, and Jesper would be lying to say it didn’t hurt. He wanted to be Wylan’s person. He wanted to be who Wylan looked for first. He told himself Wylan just hadn’t been himself last night, but the rejection still stung that after two nights of cuddling close to him, last night Wylan turned away.  
  
Jesper stopped fiddling with the buttons on his nightshirt and reached over to touch Wylan’s hair instead, ghosting a fingertip over his curls.  
  
He hadn’t realized how bad it had been. Jan Van Eck was a bastard, there was no question about that; since meeting the man, Jesper had never imagined he treated his son particularly well. The idea was in his head now: 13-year-old Wylan, on hands and knees, licking the floor. Tonic and dirt, snot and tears. He wanted so badly to step into that room, punch Van Eck in the jaw, put his arms around Wylan and tell him it was okay, he was better than this—and he knew he wouldn’t have. Who he had been then, Jesper would have had no sympathy for a merchant’s son. Saints… he would have laughed.  
  
Why had he kicked the chair? Was that Wylan’s response or was that what Jan had done? Had he kicked the chair or his son?  
  
Jesper didn’t want to know.  
  
When had Jan Van Eck given up on Wylan? How long did he keep him around simply because he liked to humiliate him?  
  
He didn’t want to know.  
  
How many incidents had there been? How many cutting words and bruising fists? Wylan said the incident in the dining room was the only time Jan lost control, but how many times had he inflicted perfectly controlled, measured cruelties?  
  
A part of Jesper had held onto the belief that while Jan had been cold and hurtful, he hadn’t been cruel. After all—fathers had to discipline their sons sometimes. When Jesper’s da threatened to tan his hide so he wouldn’t sit for two weeks, he had been exaggerating, but he had not been lying. Probably. But Colm was controlled. He hadn’t punished his son because he wanted to but because Jesper, knowing full well what he was doing, tended to put himself in danger because he was bored. That control had slipped when Jesper showed off his zowa abilities, but that was only ever a bit of shouting, and it was because he was scared for Jesper’s safety, not out of disdain.  
  
Wylan was somehow both a bomb-maker and an innocent. He didn’t hurt people who hadn’t tried to hurt him first; he didn’t assume people were out to harm others; he didn’t get into a scheme without considering who it impacted. Maybe the Barrel would have beaten that out of him, but Jesper was grateful it hadn’t gotten the chance.  
  
He was amazed Jan hadn’t managed it.  
  
Thinking about this in a dark room was too much. Jesper looked away from Wylan, to the curtained window casting them both in dark shadows. He remembered how he felt the bullets when he moved them with his abilities—could he do the same to the curtains? To the metal rings…  
  
Jesper focused on the rings. He tried to feel them, to sense them, like the bullets, to feel the edges of each ring in his mind. This wasn’t what he usually did. Usually he just—separated out on thing from another and pulled it to him, it had only been a slight difference when he move the bullets.  
  
But maybe.  
  
Maybe.  
  
He willed the rings to move.  
  
They didn’t.  
  
He scowled at them to no effect.  
  
Jesper sighed softly. Here they were then. He could get up and open the curtains, but he didn’t want to wake Wylan. He was sleeping peacefully. That peace would be gone when he woke up.  
  
“Can you live here?” Jesper asked.  
  
He didn’t expect or receive an answer, but he was coming to understand just what it cost Wylan to be in this house. The words he used. His father “corrected” him. His father “guided” him. “Helped” him. Why couldn’t Wylan call it what it was? His father abused him.  
  
Jesper hated to see people he cared about hurting. This was the most he had ever cared for someone outside his immediate family. Did that make sense? He had only known Wylan for a few months, only had a halfway decent rapport with him for a matter of weeks—and not many of them. Logically—who cared? Logic didn’t matter. Jesper knew what he felt.  
  
He remembered how much he had wanted Kaz’s respect and trust. He knew he had Wylan’s. Was this how it was supposed to feel? It was terrifying. It was like being back on Vellgeluk. He remembered how close he had been to shooting Jan Van Eck through the face and wished he were back in that position again. It was a useful thing to do, shooting people in the face. Sometimes.  
  
Now Wylan was struggling and Jesper didn’t know what, if anything, he could do.  
  
He brushed his fingertips against the back of Wylan’s head again, a mix of the ends of hairs and looping curls.  
  
_You deserved better._  
  
“How do I help you?”  
  
“You’re here.”  
  
Jesper startled. “What—you were sleeping!”  
  
“Sorry,” Wylan mumbled. “I forgot. Sleep is an unchanging state.”  
  
“I heard that story. As I recall, it was about a princess.”  
  
“Do you want to kiss me awake?”  
  
_Yes._  
  
“I don’t make a habit of putting my mouth on someone who isn’t in a position to agree,” Jesper said, “but if you’re inviting me…”  
  
“I’m inviting you.”  
  
“Are your eyes closed?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“On your back, this is a terrible angle for kissing.”  
  
Wylan rolled onto his back.  
  
So Jesper kissed him.  
  
Wylan opened his eyes. “’Morning,” he said, softly, when Jesper pulled back just a few inches.  
  
“’Morning. You feeling better?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Did it help? Talking about… what happened?”  
  
“It helped.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
Wylan slowly wound his hand in the fabric of Jesper’s nightshirt and tugged him closer. Jesper was more than happy to oblige.  
  
The truth was, Wylan wasn’t much of a kisser. He was improving with experience. For now, Jesper took the lead and gave him nudges in the right direction. He slid his hand under Wylan’s head, drawing him in. Asking.  
  
Wylan pressed closer, his free hand wandering down Jesper’s stomach.  
  
Jesper pushed him away.  
  
He would flirt, sometimes too much, but he kept his skivvies on unless he was certain both parties wanted more. Right now, part of him wanted more—because it was Wylan and because his hands were itching for _something_. He didn’t want those two mixed. Wylan’s first experience was not going to be a balm to soothe Jesper’s restlessness.  
  
“I thought you wanted…”  
  
_Saints._ It wasn’t going to be like that, either, he didn’t want servicing. Not from Wylan.  
  
“Another time.”  
  
“Oh. Okay.”  
  
“But it’s nice that you want me again.” Jesper heard the bitterness and pettiness in his own voice and he winced.  
  
“I-I’m sorry.”  
  
Jesper brought his knees up and looped his arms around them. He supposed he was meant to know what to do. He _wanted_ to know what to do. This was why he had gone for Inej’s help last night: he _didn’t_ know what to do.  
  
“Was it because I snapped at you?”  
  
“Was what?”  
  
“Was that why you didn’t want me close to you last night?”  
  
Wylan sat up, a shifting shadow-grey figure. Jesper didn’t need to see any detail to know those blue eyes were fixed on the foot of the bed as he said, “I wanted you close. I didn’t deserve you.”  
  
Jesper had been in more than his share of firefights, and he’d been about his share of shot.  
  
It felt kind of like that.  
  
At first, Jesper wasn’t certain why. It bothered him that he had felt rejected, but there was a deeper sting. He needed a moment to realize what it was. Wylan had used Jesper to punish himself. It took the breath out of him.  
  
“It’s not your fault you snapped at me.”  
  
“It is my fault.”  
  
“No, it’s not. Don’t think that way,” Wylan insisted, reaching over to put his arm across Jesper’s shoulders.  
  
Jesper leaned into him. Instinctive. Not realizing he had lost the thread of the conversation for a moment. Wylan was a fair bit shorter and this was not the most comfortable snuggle, but worth it, for a little while.  
  
“You’re wonderful. I know the past couple of days have been—probably boring and I’ve admired how well you’ve been handling it. It’s understandable that you would lose your composure for a minute. Especially given how—how I was.”  
  
“Are you trying to reassure me because I regret being short with you?”  
  
“You weren’t short. You’re not short at all.”  
  
Had Wylan just…? He had. He had tried to tell a joke.  
  
That was _adorable_.  
  
“You were frustrated.”  
  
Jesper laughed, but without the usual humor one would associate with his—with anyone’s laughter. But especially his. He did like to laugh and knew sometimes laughter was the best response. It could be genuine, sarcastic, warm or mocking. This laugh was hollow.  
  
“Remember when we talked about you needing more spine?”  
  
“And I told you that _I have plenty of spine_ ,” Wylan said, pointed.  
  
Yeah, they were going to have a chat about that, but first: “Lie down, would you?”  
  
Wylan hesitated a second, but rather than question, he did as Jesper asked. Wylan was considerably shorter and him having an arm around Jesper’s shoulders was nice but impractical. With Wylan on his back, Jesper settled against him, his head on Wylan’s chest, one arm wrapped around him. Wylan once more rested an arm around Jesper’s shoulder.  
  
“Much better. You know you can tell me things, right?”  
  
Wylan took too long to say, “I know.”  
  
“If you want to talk about what happened, you can talk to me. I know you think about it. There’s nowhere in this house that doesn’t take you away from me. But don’t ever use me to hurt yourself.”  
  
“I’m,” Wylan began, then abruptly stopped himself. He tried again, “I’ll,” and again a stop.  
  
Jesper didn’t need to ask what would have come next. Wylan was sorry. He would do better. How did anyone do this to another human being, let alone their own child? A part of Jesper wanted to tell him he was safe, he didn’t need to be sorry.  
  
Instead, he said, “Tell me how to help you.”  
  
He felt a tremor go through Wylan and his breathing catch. Jesper resettled himself, holding Wylan just a fraction tighter.  
  
“I don’t want to be useless.”  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
_Useless_.  
  
That had been a sticking point for Wylan early on, and at the time, Jesper hadn’t thought much of it. Or rather, at the time he had thought Wylan _was_ useless so why should he be so bratty about hearing it? He understood Wylan’s stubborn pride, too, the way he insisted he mattered. He had fought so hard against the thing he believed and feared was true.  
  
“Ghezen…” This time it didn’t sound like a swear and Jesper felt Wylan shaking. He lifted his head. Wylan had his lip between his teeth, fighting back tears.  
  
“Hey…”  
  
Wylan pressed a hand to his eyes.  
  
Jesper took hold of his free hand and gently drew it lower, kissing his knuckles and not letting go of his fingers.  
  
“You can cry if you need to cry. I won’t look. If you want me to hold you, I’ll hold you.”  
  
“Thank you,” Wylan scraped. “I don’t—” he started, then stopped, sniffling. “I don’t want to be like this.”  
  
“I know, sunshine. It’s not your fault.”  
  
Jesper hated it.  
  
He hated the helplessness, hated knowing there was nothing he could do. Right now, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t take the pain away. He couldn’t comfort Wylan without making him more ashamed. The whole situation had him burning.  
  
“I cry sometimes.”

Not often, not really. But there was a stillness in Wylan that wasn't in Jesper; Jesper thought better in motion. If he felt the way Wylan did… he didn't know.

“I’ve seen my da cry, too,” Jesper told him—just so Wylan understood that sometimes men cried and there was nothing wrong with it. “It's okay to cry when something hurts.”

After a few minutes of gasps and sniffles, Wylan said, “I’m okay. I’m okay now.”  
  
_No,_ Jesper thought. _You’re not._  
  
What he said was, “It’s killing me that I can’t help you.”  
  
“Do you really believe that?” And, suddenly, Wylan’s voice sounded strong again, certain, no longer laced with apologies. “Jesper, I couldn’t do this without you. Not only the reading and writing. I couldn’t walk through this house and believe I mattered without you. How many times in the past three days have you seen me getting lost and brought me back? Or made me smile when I forgot how?”  
  
“I like making you smile.”  
  
“You’ve done so much for me. You’re carrying me and it’s not fair to you.”  
  
Was that the problem?  
  
He could have given the easy answer. Wylan had given him a very nice place to live, hadn’t he? He knew Wylan didn’t want to hear that, though. His inheritance wasn’t what made Jesper fall for him.  
  
“I’m struggling,” he admitted. “Okay?” He didn’t like admitting; it was easier not having to look in anyone’s eyes. “This part of the world, it’s different and it’s a lot to learn. Sometimes I want to run back to what I know. Starlight, you quiet the jagged places inside me. Don’t ever think you’re not saving me too.”  
  
Wylan didn’t say anything, but he squeezed Jesper’s hand. Once would have communicated his point clearly enough. Not that there was anything wrong with three times, either.  
  
“Why do you think you aren’t good enough?”  
  
“I…”  
  
Jesper could practically hear the squeal in Wylan’s brain as his dislike of lying warred with his dislike of admitting he felt that way. Lesser. He obviously did. Maybe that was why he had seen it so clearly when the question was lurking at the back of Jesper’s mind. Maybe Jesper should have noticed before.  
  
He thought about the look on Wylan’s face when Matthias said he had done his part rescuing Inej.  
  
The surprised, hopeful look when Jesper said he was earning his keep in Fjerda.  
  
Wylan opening his mouth like an idiot and almost blowing a mission because he didn’t want Jesper having to give up his guns… Jesper being angry with him because this was hard enough without being reminded. He regretted it now.  
  
Matter-of-fact, Wylan said, “Because I’m not. Why didn’t I stand up to him? Why didn’t I find my mother before, why didn’t I help her? And with the Dregs, I was—I was there, but I was never as good, I was never one of you. I was born lucky and I’m pretty good at chemistry. You, Inej, Kaz… you’re all do much. Talented, strong—Jesper, you’re incredible.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“ _And_ you’re the best sharpshooter this side of the True Sea _and_ you light up any room you walk into _and_ you have the most perfect—”  
  
“I didn’t mean—what?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I have the most perfect what?”  
  
“Oh. Well, everything.”  
  
“But especially…” Jesper prompted. He reached up to stroke Wylan’s cheek gently, as much just to touch him as to feel the heat when he blushed. The smoothness of Wylan’s skin struck him. Jesper knew Wylan hadn’t shaved in the past few days. He knew he needed to shave and wondered how Wylan felt about kissing someone with stubble. (Not the time, not the time.)  
  
He was distracted when Wylan—obligingly—blushed.  
  
“Lips,” Wylan said. “When I first saw you, I thought you had the most beautiful mouth I’ve ever seen.”  
  
“Unexpected, but appreciated. But that wasn’t what I meant. I’m better than you are in a fight or at a party. Why does that matter? You’re righteous.” Kaz had used it, the way he used most men’s greed and shame. Jesper didn’t realize it at the time. “You’re the first to speak up just because someone needs a champion. You think you’re less and you still tried to protect Kuwei when me or Kaz was having a go at him.”  
  
It struck Jesper that Wylan had stood up for the others, too, if he had to. He had been the first to defend Jesper for running his mouth about the job in Fjerda. After Squallers on parem took Inej, Wylan had barely paused to breathe before assuming Kaz would get her back.  
  
“I also threatened to push him in the canal.”  
  
“You wouldn’t have,” Jesper said.  
  
Besides, Kuwei had pulled a nasty trick. Jesper should’ve double-checked but… but he had wanted Wylan. He wanted so badly for Wylan to be there, and there he was, like some stupid fairytale. And Kuwei had wanted him.  
  
When Wylan didn’t reply— _would you really push someone in the canal for me, merchling?_ —Jesper said, “You weren’t especially useful—not at first—but you’ve always tried hard and you learn fast.”  
  
He wished he hadn’t been so short with Wylan about that. If he had known—if he had understood that Wylan couldn’t help the cell of a world his father kept him in… Jesper didn’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything.  
  
“You’re not my first choice in a fight, but you have your own sort of courage. You’re kind. I’m stronger than you’ll ever be, Wylan. You’re kinder than I’ll ever be. Let me be strong so you can be kind.”  
  
“You are kind.”  
  
Jesper laughed. “I’m infectious. I’m fun. Not the same thing. Saints, that is _you_. I’m telling you about the good in you and all you hear is the one thing about me.”  
  
“Jes… I…”  
  
“No, shh, don’t apologize.” Not again. He couldn’t, Jesper couldn’t hear that again. “Who cares if you’re the best criminal or a proper mercher? You’re one of the cleverest demo contacts and wealthiest men in Ketterdam. You’re a good person. Seems like you’re doing fine.”  
  
“I didn’t earn any of that. Kaz gave it to me.”  
  
“No, he…”  
  
He sort of had, though. He restored Wylan’s inheritance. He pulled Wylan out of the tannery. Well… Wylan had still worked in the tannery, but Kaz gave him enough demo work to avoid starving.  
  
“Kaz kept me in Ketterdam when I could have turned around and gone back home. Kept me in the Dregs even when my luck was bad.” Sometimes it had been the other way around. Jesper stayed for Kaz. But… it was still Kaz keeping him there. “There’s no shame in someone else influencing your life.”  
  
Wylan was quiet at first, but his body said more than enough, tension easing out of him.  
  
“Like you?”  
  
At first, Jesper didn’t understand—and then he did. _Someone else influencing your life_.  
  
“Yeah. Just like me.”  
  
The stayed like that for a while and, although Jesper did his best, he felt the unrest settle in soon. He busied himself brushing his fingertips along Wylan’s hand, but he was getting too itchy for just the one thing to do. He could have reached for his guns, but there was no way to do that without uncuddling.  
  
“We should get up,” Wylan said.  
  
“We should,” Jesper agreed.  
  
Needful as he was to be once more in motion, he was reluctant to move and took more time than was necessary in leaving the bed, even after Wylan was up.  
  
Wylan pulled the curtains open, spilling light into the room. It was the last push Jesper needed—much light, no Wylan—to get out of bed. He touched the water on the dressing table. If they had been up at a reasonable time, it would have been warm. This whole business of having servants was very nice.  
  
Shaving did remind him of something, though: “Wy…”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
With Jesper otherwise occupied, Wylan didn’t mind changing without a ‘turn your back’ promise. Jesper kept the mirror angled carefully away from him.  
  
“Some ground rules for us? I will never do anything to hurt you. I’m not going to say I’m always easy to be around—”  
  
“You are.”  
  
“Interrupting is bad manners, gorgeous.”  
  
“I’m willing to be rude when people slander my boyfriend.”  
  
_Boyfriend_. Did they agree to that? Saints, they hadn’t, but the stirring in Jesper’s chest said he was absolutely fine with it! He heard the shake in Wylan’s voice, but liked that he said it anyway.  
  
“Oh yeah? Sounds like a good boyfriend,” Jesper said.  
  
“The best,” Wylan replied. “So smart. It’s almost scary sometimes how quickly his mind works. He’s witty and forgiving. Patient.”  
  
“Are you sure about that?”  
  
“Well, he’s patient with me. This mysterious boyfriend.”  
  
“Boyfriend slash secretary,” Jesper said.  
  
He heard the sigh and could picture Wylan rolling his eyes. It would have been annoying if he didn’t have such gorgeous eyes.  
  
“As I was saying before I was _rudely interrupted by an ill-mannered lout_ ,” he tried again, this time making Wylan laugh just enough that he couldn’t object, “I can be difficult sometimes. I’m aware of that.”  
  
“So can I.”  
  
“We’re talking about me now.”  
  
Jesper opened his razor, aware he was about to slow the conversation. He could banter wittily while lathering up but with a sharp blade to his throat he would keep things nice and steady.  
  
“I didn’t like what you asked me yesterday,” he said, and realized in the lull that Wylan wasn’t entirely certain: “Outside Saint Hilde, you asked if I was punishing you. I wouldn’t do that. That’s what I was going to say when you fell, that I wouldn’t do that. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t like what you did, I wasn’t going to hurt you for it. No more of that.”  
  
“The deal is the deal.”  
  
“ _Wy_.”  
  
“No, I mean it. I won’t… I can’t promise I won’t think that way, but I’ll remind myself that it’s not you.”  
  
Jesper could live with that. “Good,” he said, wiping the last smears of soap off his face. He couldn’t grow a good beard yet; he had tried and it made him look like a child playing dress-up. He didn’t precisely mind how he looked clean-shaven, either, he just would have liked his body to hurry up and give him the option.  
  
Then Wylan came over, put his arms around Jesper’s shoulders, and kissed his cheek, and suddenly having to shave off his patchy not-beard stubble was the best thing in the world.  
  
Giving Wylan’s hands a gentle squeeze, Jesper said, “One more thing?”  
  
“Just the one?”  
  
“For now. You don’t have to tell me what he did if you don’t want to, but maybe you could tell me the truth about your birthday?”  
  
He felt the tension zing into Wylan’s body, watched in the mirror as he went from questioning to realizing.  
  
“You knew?”  
  
“You said he and Alys had been married for about a year, that it was within a year of… what happened in the dining room. And…” Jesper stroked Wylan’s cheek. Not a hint of growth.  
  
“Redheads are late bloomers,” Wylan grumbled.  
  
“Why did you lie?”  
  
Glumly looking away from the mirror, he said, “I thought people would take me more seriously if I was older.”  
  
That had been a severe miscalculation on his part. With his baby face, Wylan could have shaved a year off his age—Jesper might not have flirted with him, but Kaz might have gone easier.  
  
Who was he kidding? Kaz wouldn’t have gone easier.  
  
“Jesper.”  
  
“Listening.”  
  
“My birthday is next month and I’m going to be sixteen. And… there’s something else I should tell you…”  
  
Jesper glanced from reflected Wylan to real Wylan, twisting a bit to get a better look. He genuinely had no idea what to expect now. That intrigued him.  
  
Wylan took a deep breath.  
  
“I’m sorry, Jes…”  
  
Jesper braced himself, promising that it would be okay, whatever it was it would be okay.  
  
“…but I want cake, not waffles.”  
  
Jesper released a bark of laughter. He was so surprised and impressed by how well Wylan had built that up, misled him into thinking this was a serious concern (a serious lapse in taste, maybe…) that he barely realized what he was doing until he had pulled Wylan into his lap. Wylan braced himself with an arm on Jesper’s shoulder and he was smiling, but his smile had faltered some and there was a question in his eyes.  
  
“Is this okay?” Jesper asked.  
  
“It’s okay.” But the response was breathless and not just in the good way.  
  
“You can change your mind. If you tell me something’s okay but you don’t like it, tell me to stop.”  
  
Wylan nodded. “It’s new, but it’s okay.”  
  
Jesper accepted that, but as he reached for the buttons on Wylan’s shirt, he asked again: “I’m going to unbutton your shirt, is that okay?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
It was strange—earlier, when Wylan tried something, Jesper had seen no choice but to push him away. Maybe it was because they had talked honestly with each other. Maybe it was because Wylan seemed more his old self now. Whatever the reason, this felt right.  
  
When he had space enough to push aside the silk, Jesper didn’t need to ask.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
He was careful with Wylan. He had shown he was tougher than he looked and didn’t complain about injuries, but here Jesper didn’t need to think about that. It was just them, just Wylan and him and that smooth, delicate skin that took so easily to bruises.  
  
“You can tell me if it’s not okay.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Jesper drew Wylan in closer and leaned nearer. He kissed down his neck, toward his shoulder, feeling as well as hearing when Wylan’s breathing shifted. He was enjoying this. So was Jesper. He liked the closeness, liked burying his nose in the scent of his now-official boyfriend, liked the taste of his skin. He liked eliciting those little sounds he could tell Wylan was trying and failing to suppress.  
  
He paused before doing anything that would leave a mark.  
  
“I’m going to leave a bruise—no, not like that. It’s a… kiss. It's kind of a kiss. Is that okay?”  
  
Wylan hesitated. “Will it hurt?”  
  
“A little,” Jesper murmured, “but I think you’ll like it. If you want me to stop, just say so and I’ll stop.”  
  
He nodded. There was still a note of nervousness, but: “Okay.”  
  
Jesper had done this before, but usually he had been with partners who didn’t need him to explain love bites. They knew. Wylan didn’t and Jesper felt the tremor of nerves in him, listened attentively for anything that suggested Wylan wanted him to stop. He heard plenty, but none of it was bad.  
  
“Wy?” he asked, when he was through. Jesper pulled away so he could read the reaction in Wylan’s face.  
  
Wylan’s fingers brushed the tender spot.  
  
“Wy, did you like that?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Wylan said, mouth tugging into a wicked little smile. “Could you do it again? As an experiment?”  
  
“Anything for science.”  
  
They were both certain later, when Jesper found a clean corner of the towel he had used to wipe off his shaving soap and dried the growing bruises on Wylan’s collarbone and shoulder.  
  
“You’ll feel them later. If you don’t like it, we won’t do it again.”  
  
Wylan nodded. “So—that’s the sort of thing you learn in the Barrel?”  
  
Jesper wanted to laugh and bit down on his tongue to keep from doing so. He wanted to laugh _now_. But in the future he wanted Wylan to keep talking to him about these things. Kissing. Intimacy. He wanted it to be something new that was fun and safe and theirs, and he knew if he made Wylan feel stupid about it now, the damage would have an echo.  
  
“That’s just normal stuff.”  
  
“It is?”  
  
“It is. Stop staring into my eyes and button your shirt.”  
  
“I could drown in them,” Wylan said, then went bright pink as he fixed his buttons. Jesper watched the marks disappear. Wylan must have been having the same thoughts, because he hesitated, looking at the reddened skin. “It’ll show?”  
  
Jesper nodded. “You’ll notice later.”  
  
“Like an echo of you on my skin. ‘Jesper was here’.”  
  
“Well, we can always try this again and if you really like it we’ll get my name tattooed on your shoulder…” He trailed off at the end, realizing what he had said.  
  
“It’s okay,” Wylan said, his face likewise showing a sting, but he recovered quickly. “That could be… kind of nice. I would have to trust you on what it said, but no one else would know that, so it would be ours twice over.”  
  
“Are you serious?”  
  
“I’m not ready for a tattoo, but maybe one day. Are you going to let me go?”  
  
“Mm, that seems like it would lead to you not being on my lap.”  
  
“It would.”  
  
“Weak incentive.”  
  
“I can’t just sit here all day.”  
  
“You’ll have to if I don’t give you an option,” Jesper retorted.  
  
Wylan laughed and either it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard or he was just in a really good mood, because he laughed so much Jesper had to object to it.  
  
“Stop squirming or you’re going to fall!”  
  
“So l…” More laughter. “So let me go.”  
  
“Fine,” Jesper said, though he had to half-shove Wylan to his feet. He really was laughing that hard. “I like this tattoo idea. Of course that’s in the future, so I’ll find another way to remind Nina after we tell her.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ll _try_ to protect you,” Jesper continued, feeling the sly and the laugh return to his tone. “I’ll always try to protect you, but this is Nina we’re talking about, and with her new power—”  
  
“Jesper, what are you talking about?” Wylan asked.  
  
“I warned you what would happen if you called yourself a moron again.”  
  
“Wha—”  
  
_I’ll tell Nina you tried to kiss Matthias. With tongue._  
  
“You’re not going to—”  
  
“Ah, ah, actions have consequences, merchling,” Jesper scolded.  
  
“You wouldn’t do that to Nina,” Wylan pointed out.  
  
That was actually true. It had been one thing before Matthias passed on. Now it would be cruel.  
  
“Then I’ll tell Kaz you called his haircut stupid.”  
  
Wylan burst out laughing. “Hey, you need me alive!”  
  
Jesper kissed him. “I guess so. For now.”


	13. Good Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: physical and emotional abuse (discussed)

Saint Hilde had very peaceful grounds, but Wylan felt his mother’s growing agitation nonetheless. He tried to engage her in a conversation. He chattered about pieces of music. About painting techniques. About how dull a DeKappel really was.  
  
Jesper hadn’t joined him today. He had offered, but Wylan couldn’t ask him to keep giving up hours every day just to sit next to Wylan and hold his hand… even if Wylan did like holding Jesper’s hand under any circumstances.   
  
Marya seemed slightly agitated by him, too.  
  
Wylan couldn’t blame her. It was the echo of the lie they told. He wanted to blame Kaz. The lie had been his idea. But Wylan knew it wasn’t really Kaz’s fault, that even if he hadn’t been exactly gentle about it, Kaz had been the one to bring Wylan and Marya back into one another’s lives.  
  
Today Marya looked away and gave only brief, single-word answers.  
  
“Are you well?” Wylan asked, finally. He had asked how she was earlier, but maybe she hadn’t be honest. Maybe she hadn’t felt comfortable saying it in there.  
  
“Fine,” she said. Terse.  
  
“Mama.”  
  
He reached for her arm, but she pulled away. It stung; Wylan forced himself to take a breath and remember that this wasn’t about them. It was about the years between, the time she spent here. Whatever was happening in her mind, the confusion caused it.  
  
“This is a mistake, I don’t want you here,” Marya said, looking away from him.  
  
Another breath.  
  
“I—”  
  
“I don’t want to see you.”  
  
“Mother—”  
  
“He’ll take you away again!”  
  
The words landed hard, but Wylan understood perfectly. It was the sort of thing Jan would do. There had been times Wylan lost his flute, drawings torn, his pen and ink set missing and a severe-looking book in its place. He had spent too much time on trivial distractions, neglected to work at—  
  
_No.  
_  
No, Wylan reminded himself, he had worked at his reading. He did everything he could. Taking his flute and ruining his art had been cruel.  
  
“He won’t,” Wylan promised, reaching for her hands again.  
  
His mother pushed him away. She shoved him.  
  
“Don’t touch me! I can’t lose you again! You’re only making it worse for us both, don’t come here anymore!”  
  
Wylan glanced around. Her voice was rising. It might attract attention—he didn’t want anyone to hear her like this, or to see her so agitated. They wouldn’t understand. They would think she wasn’t well, they might prevent him from bringing her home…  
  
“He’s not coming back.”  
  
“You don’t know him!”  
  
_I know him very well,_ Wylan thought.   
  
She wound her hands into her curls, gripping white-knuckled.  
  
“Mama, stop.”  
  
He couldn’t hide this. If she hurt herself, he couldn’t hide this. What if she fell further away from him? If they had to restrain her again? He knew she wanted him to stay away, but she had to stop. He put his hands on hers, trying to ease her grip.  
  
“I said _don’t touch me!_ ”  
  
Well, if her raised voice had left any piece of the calm unbroken, the echo of a slap shattered it.   
  
Wylan looked away. His cheek stung and he felt the red rising, and he wished she hadn’t hit him on the face where it would show. He wished he could see through this situation to the right end the way Inej would. He wished… he wished Jesper were here. Inej would tell him it was only his mother’s confusion—he knew that—but Jesper would tell Wylan the thing he wanted to believe. Jesper would tell him that he was a good son.  
  
Wylan held onto that thought, not telling Jesper about this, not asking. The thought of being next to Jesper, his smile, the sly note that crept into his voice just before he teased. _Soon, soon._   
  
Marya sobbed drily. When Wylan raised his eyes, he saw her hands held to her mouth, tears glittering in her eyes.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he told her in a low, hoarse voice. “You said not to touch you and I should have listened. I won’t do it again.”  
  
“Oh, my Wylan, what did he do to you? What have I done to you?”  
  
He looked around again. A nurse was approaching more speedily than Wylan would have liked. Had they seen her hit him? Heard it? His mind scrambled for explanations, for anything he could say to prevent them from punishing her. She was his mother, after all. She had every right.  
  
“Please forgive me.”   
  
If this set back his plan to bring her home, he needed to know she didn’t hate him.   
  
“ _Please_ forgive me, Mama.”  
  
Tears rolled down her face. Her hands stayed over her mouth.  
  
He didn’t know what else to say. He brought a hand to his shoulder. The bruises had formed. They didn’t really hurt, but he felt them more than he felt the rest of his skin. _Jesper was here_.   
  
“Mister Van Eck, Miss Hendriks,” said the nurse, bringing a hard set to Marya’s face. “I hope we’re all doing well!”  
  
“We are, thank you,” Wylan said.   
  
He sounded weaker than he would have liked. If he had a different voice… if he had Kaz’s rasp people would be too afraid to question him. If he had Matthias’s rumble no one would think to. Even Jesper’s easy confidence would do the trick. But he had none of those, only his own voice that sounded like a reedy shout when he tried to raise it and hit clear, crisp notes when he sang.  
  
That did not stop him saying, “I have asked that my mother be addressed by her married name, Marya Van Eck.”  
  
“Of course, of course,” said the nurse, giving Wylan an indulgent smile. “Mrs. Van Eck.”  
  
For all she meant it she might as well have winked.  
  
“Was there something you needed from us?” he asked, trying not to clip his tone as sharply as he had with Kuwei. Wylan had done things he was ashamed of, but he didn’t like this mean side that was bubbling up in him lately.  
  
“It did seem _Mrs. Van Eck_ might be getting a little agitated.”  
  
He didn’t like the look she gave his mother. He didn’t like how he said her name, the way she might have indulged a child.  
  
Wylan stepped between the nurse and his mother.  
  
“I would think that’s normal,” he informed her, “considering the news that my father has been arrested.”  
  
“Oh… oh my.”  
  
“Indeed. We were just going to take another turn around the garden then we’ll be back inside, the weather’s so lovely today. There’s nothing like fresh air for processing bad news.”  
  
What was he saying? Did any of this make sense? It felt… well… it felt mad. The explanations popped into his mouth so easily he felt like Jesper might have, except that without Jesper’s smooth charm and quick thinking, it all probably sounded ridiculous, words strung together in half-meaningful sentences.   
  
The nurse nodded. “Very well then, Mister Van Eck.”  
  
When she had gone, he turned to his mother again, a question on his face and in the set of his shoulders. She was weeping softly.  
  
“I… I’d like to hug you, Mama, may I do that?”  
  
“What have I _done_ …”  
  
“Mama? May I hug you, please?”  
  
She nodded.  
  
Wylan was gentle. He didn’t pull her into a hug but put his arms around her slowly, giving her ample time to shove him away. It was okay if she did that. They weren’t used to each other anymore. She didn’t, though. She wrapped her arms around him and held on, and as much as he wished he could just melt into her hug, he wasn’t a child and she wasn’t here to protect him. It was his job now to protect her.  
  
“What did he do?” she asked, tearful.  
  
“He tried to influence the markets.”  
  
“Oh, no,” she said. “No, no, my Wylan. What did he do to _you_?”  
  
Suddenly the weather felt less lovely. Wylan felt the cold crash through him. How would he, could he answer? Not honestly, but the memories were so fresh in his mind: slaps, beatings, cold fury on Jan’s face, furious pinches in bruised places when Wylan gave the wrong answer at a social event and needed to be told subtly to shut his idiot mouth. The chilling humor when the third hypnotist failed to cure him—Wylan didn’t know why his father thought hypnotism would help, but he remembered what Jan said to him when it didn’t. _Worthless,_ he had said, _but at least you are entertaining_. Wylan never did learn what he had done in those lost minutes. He remembered that. He remembered every barbed word and cutting look that he would have gladly traded for another bruise.  
  
He couldn’t tell her any of it. Knowing would upset her, and… and he didn’t want her to think of him that way. Bad enough Jesper and Inej knew. Stupid, pathetic Wylan, crying as he licked the floor. Jesper would have beaten the lights out of anyone who tried to make him do something like that. Inej would have, too, but if she had been small and helpless, at least she would have been dignified. She wouldn’t have sniveled.  
  
_He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t have to say those things._  
  
That was all well and good, Jesper, but Wylan could have taken it like a man instead of like a toddler.  
  
“Do you remember the Boeksplein?” he asked. “You told me there are good monsters. I met one. A good monster. He was so angry with Father. He didn’t lie, Mama, Father is a bad man and he cheats, and he hurts people. The good monster took everything away from him. He’s still watching, just like the statues, and he’ll make sure Father stays away for a long, long time. Even if he were released, he has nothing. The Transfer of Authority is signed. Everything is in my name now. I want you to come home, and I promise I’ll do everything I can to help you.”  
  
The rest of the visit passed uneventfully. They didn’t talk much, but they did take that stroll around the garden, and Marya allowed Wylan to take her hand for most of it. She seemed steadier when they parted ways. A bit—did he dare hope?—more herself.  
  
Wylan walked back to the dock, something he thought helped clear his head, giving him time to process all that had just happened. Once he was back on the boat, though, he found himself unable to draw his thoughts away from the heat in his face. For once, it wasn’t from blushing.  
  
_She didn’t mean it_ , he told himself. All those years, she spent so long alone, she forgot things. She didn’t mean it. It wasn’t her fault.  
  
But… why?  
  
Of all the ways she could have made her point, why did she have to hit him?  
  
Wylan remembered the rumble of a tank. He remembered the gun turret, the weapon he told himself he struggled to control because his hands were raw from popped blisters, not because it was built for soldiers, big ones at that, and he didn’t have the strength. No one had asked, but no one had criticized him, either. Even with his lack of finesse, he had felt capable.  
  
Was he that boy? He remembered being that same person, that same capable person. He felt like someone other people struck to make him obey.  
  
_It's not her fault…_  
  
But if she wasn’t thinking, if it was all instinct, then her instincts said to hit him.  
  
_She was sorry.  
  
She didn’t mean it._  
  
He touched his face and was ashamed that his hand came away wet. He scrubbed his eyes on his cuff.  
  
_Stop_ , he told himself. He heard his father’s voice in his head, his father’s disdainful analysis of the art and music Wylan took such joy and pride in: _pretty._ Of Wylan, in whom Wylan himself took very little pride for a very long time: _worthless._  
  
They were calculated insults, Kerch insults. Value was everything in Kerch. Value was a sign of Ghezen’s favor. And “pretty”? There was no place for adornment in a culture of value. Merchants wore blacks and greys, practical clothing in serious colors. Their homes had rich things, but rarely lovely things. Lovely things were too often without purpose. Jan had been clear that Wylan was nothing but a bauble, a thing without function or purpose.  
  
_Brilliant. Gorgeous_.  
  
He'd heard it enough times that Wylan might have been starting to believe it. He wasn’t sure it was any sort of fact, but he believed he was good with chemistry, and he was gorgeous to Jesper. And frankly he didn’t much mind what anyone else thought. The words came with a memory of Jesper’s arms around him, the warmth of his skin and the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint beating of his heart in the quiet dark.   
  
He would be there soon. Tonight. Wylan realized he had just assumed he would be next to Jesper—he wasn’t waiting for an invitation.  
  
The thought was enough to stop his crying.  
  
Jesper liked pretty things.  
  
Jesper liked Wylan.  
  
It was nice. It was… new. His father had weaponized Wylan’s body against him, exploited its weaknesses, used it to punish him and to control him. Wylan was so used to the idea he never truly considered his body might be something to value. He still felt a flutter of nerves when Jesper looked or touched too much in the light—Wylan liked Jesper’s attention too much to ask him to stop, but he was afraid of the day Jesper changed his mind. Things were easier in the dark, where he couldn’t actually see it.  
  
Not that anything was exclusively physical, of course.  
  
That morning, when Wylan hadn’t considered himself, whether he wanted it, when he went to touch Jesper because Jesper would enjoy it—he hadn’t been present. He had been a body with a task and a person inside who didn’t know how to feel or understand and so didn’t. Jesper had known. Somehow, he had known, and he hadn’t wanted it without Wylan. He probably hadn’t meant much by it, but to Wylan that meant—Ghezen would go deaf to his name and prayers—it meant more than four million kruge.  
  
And, yes, the thought buoyed him that he would fall asleep tonight tangled up in someone who saw him, wanted him—but it wasn’t enough. He was quite happy being Jesper’s… but he wanted to be more, too. He needed strength of his own, the strength of someone who climbed ropes up incinerator shafts and helped break out of prisons. Maybe if he could find the place where his strength was sleeping, things would be better.  
  
His first stop at home on Geldstraat was the Grisha workshop, where he asked Sveta to fix his bruising cheek. He didn’t want Jesper to know. He had a brief word with Pyotr as well, unpleasant, but productive.   
  
From there, Wylan went to the house guards’ central post by the little armory. The guards gave him the polite, half-meant greetings to which Wylan was growing accustomed. But that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? The wrongness of him.  
  
Wylan took a breath.  
  
He might hate this.  
  
He might regret it.  
  
“I’m looking for someone who can teach me how to fight.”  
  
The guards traded glances.  
  
“That takes time.”  
  
Yes, and it would likely hurt, too.  
  
“I’ll be here for a while,” Wylan replied.  
  
He would—but he would become more. Stronger. He might hate it, and it might hurt, but it would be worth doing.  
  
Maybe the first step toward not being hit was knowing he wasn’t helpless.


	14. Merchants and Shopkeepers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The myth discussed in this chapter takes some details from King of Scars, so it could be considered spoilers--though just about the Ravkan saints, not the book itself.

This, Jesper decided, was his favorite afternoon. He liked the mansion on Geldstraat well enough. It was difficult to dislike a place with a soft bed, warm meals, decent lager (he would have a word with Wylan about that), better liquor (not that he had partaken, not yet, but Jan Van Eck had fine taste in the hard stuff), one of his closest friends, and a gorgeous merchling to snuggle at night. Everything he could have thought to want, he had. And then some.  
  
But it was a bit boring sometimes. A man needed things to do besides eating, drinking, and sleeping with Wylan. (Jesper knew he could have told himself this in different words, but was quite happy not to do that.)  
  
Today was different.  
  
Today, after Wylan returned from visiting his mother and Jesper convinced himself that was enough time with the horses, they and Inej headed to the harbor.  
  
“You need to go first, Wy,” Jesper said.  
  
Inej nodded.  
  
“Remember, it’s _your_ company.”  
  
Wylan took a deep breath and nodded. “Right,” he said. Right, it was his company. He took another breath and hid his nervousness, sat up straighter. Though he couldn’t hide the seasick look on his face, he did appear a little more mature this way.  
  
Jesper didn’t say a single inappropriate thing. This wasn’t the occasion. He took a moment to enjoy the difference of being out here on the water. Fear of plague didn’t bother the gulls, who squawked until he wished he had a rock to throw at them. Pulling his revolvers seemed a touch excessive, but give him another ten minutes of this, he might change his mind. The little boat had taken the waves hard, bad enough that even Jesper and Inej were a touch green around the gills from it. Now they were protected from the worst of it, their boat steady alongside the subtly named _Legacy_.  
  
Wylan thanked the fisherman he had paid to bring them out here, then started up the rope ladder first.  
  
Inej looked to Jesper.  
  
“After you,” he said, “you’re going to make me look bad either way.”  
  
“True,” she agreed, and alit onto the ladder like a sprite. He didn’t know how she did it. If you asked Jesper, there was just the one basic way to climb a rope ladder. Somehow Inej turned it into a dance—because she was Inej. Of course she did.  
  
On deck, Wylan shook hands with the ship’s captain. He had drawn himself up to his full height for the conversation. With a knit cap keeping his curls in check, he almost looked his age.  
  
“Thank you for having us aboard. I’m Wylan Van Eck, I’m running the company until my father is able to resume his position.”  
  
_If he ever gets out of prison I’ll shoot him in the guts so he dies slow,_ Jesper thought.  
  
“This is Jesper Fahey.”  
  
Jesper shook the captain’s hand. “Mister Van Eck’s secretary.”  
  
The captain replied with a nod. Not polite, not impolite, just matter-of-fact. He wondered if he ought to have added a ‘what business’. Neither merchants nor manners were Jesper’s area of expertise. From the looks of the captain, though, rude or not, it hadn’t bothered him.  
  
“And Inej Ghafa.”  
  
Inej likewise offered a handshake. She was doing it again, that thing she did where she did what normal people did with a slight tilt of her head or set of her arms or turn of her foot that made clear she was in fact balancing through this world on a rope the rest of them could not see.  
  
“Captain,” Inej said.  
  
“Miss Ghafa.”  
  
“Inej has a keen interest in seamanship. I had hoped she might have the chance to observe the _Legacy_ in action,” Wylan explained.  
  
The captain frowned. It made his beard droop almost mournfully. “We’ll stay anchored safe,” he said, “until the plague has passed.”  
  
No one wanted to dock in Ketterdam. Out here, they were safe. The ship had come into no contact with anyone infected or potentially infected… at least until the owner of the company got pushy.  
  
“I respect your concern for your health and that of your crew, but your cargo may not last the plague concerns,” Wylan said. That was true: the _Legacy_ ’s hold was stuffed with mangos, oranges, bananas, and coconuts. The coconuts would probably last a bit and the oranges could be made into marmalade, but the rest might rot before Ketterdam declared itself safe.  
  
“We’re not dying over a profit,” the captain said.  
  
The captain, Jesper thought, was not Kerch.  
  
“Perhaps while we conduct negotiations, Miss Ghafa might have a tour of the ship?” Wylan suggested.  
  
Jesper almost pitied whichever poor sailor thought they were going to show a tourist around. Inej was here for business. The three of them knew she would make it all of five feet before she had a dozen questions.  
  
The captain agreed, and as expected, there were more than a few volunteers.  
  
“Study hard, Inej,” Jesper murmured.  
  
Inej gave him a quick grin.  
  
“I understand it’s a risk,” Wylan continued, “and because of that, the Van Eck shipping company will make funds available for mediks if anyone should contract plague-like symptoms.”  
  
It was an easy offer to make, knowing full well there would be no plague-like symptoms. It had sparked a whole discussion with the three of them, with Wylan wondering if they shouldn’t just have that policy in general. People got sick, he said, they got hurt, wasn’t it in the best interest of the company to help a valuable employee get better?  
  
“And if they die?”  
  
The captain thought he was pushing hard, shoving the little merch out of his depth with death. A year ago, he would have been right.  
  
“Their families will be compensated,” Wylan said without a flinch, “generously.”  
  
They had discussed this, too. They both knew Wylan wanted to start with a fair offer instead of bartering it away piecemeal, but that wasn’t how things were done. It seemed rather than teaching him to look out for himself, his time in the Barrel had taught him that everyone was working very hard and those who could help ought to.  
  
Jesper stood back, watching. This wasn’t normal, Wylan acting assured and in control, and Jesper liked it.  
  
He scanned the visible parts of the deck, but couldn’t spot Inej. That meant nothing—partly because the entire deck wasn’t visible, partly because Inej was silence and stealth incarnate. He wasn’t worried about her. He just wanted to see her enjoying herself.  
  
“All right,” the captain gave in, “but if this goes south, it’ll be remembered, Van Eck.”  
  
As he turned and began giving orders to the crew to raise the anchor, there was a distinctly cross tilt to his head.  
  
“Good work,” Jesper said, giving Wylan a quick kiss.  
  
Wylan squeezed his hand. “Do you want to climb the ropes?” he asked.  
  
“Saints, _yes_.”  
  
“Well, go on.”  
  
“Don’t you want to ask the captain?”  
  
Wylan shrugged. “He’s already cross and it’s my boat.”  
  
“Ship.”  
  
“I’ll call my things whatever I like, Mister Fahey.”  
  
Jesper grinned. “Bold and bossy, I like this side of you.”  
  
Then he loped across the deck and hauled himself up into the rigging. One he got high enough he had a decent view of Inej, who looked like she was helping ready the ship for its stroll into its berth. They didn’t have far to go, but that wouldn’t stop her learning any more than it would stop him enjoying the feeling of all but flying.  
  
As the ship began its slow move forward, Jesper felt the pressure shift as sails caught the wind. He grinned. The water seemed so calm from up here and briefly he considered jumping. Wouldn’t that be fun, to jump from the rigging all the way to bay? But he was a little too uncertain what sort of injuries that entailed and opted for thinking about it rather than acting on that impulse.  
  
They didn’t have long. Jesper, keeping out of the sailors’ way as best he could, scrambled higher. The air was cooler and cleaner on the water, and though he couldn’t climb like Inej, he imagined this was something of how she felt high on a rooftop.  
  
Except the house was moving.  
  
And the roof was made of rope.  
  
He would never be ridiculous enough to tell Inej as much, but he suspected his experience was better.  
  
It all had to end eventually, of course. When the ship reached its berth, Jesper watched the goings-on below for a while before climbing back down to the deck.  
  
It took time.  
  
Inej continued to shadow the crew, learning more about the ship. Wylan stayed near the captain, learning and supervising at once. Jesper wandered close to him sometimes, to listen, to squeeze his hand, and more than once to climb the rigging again because it was fun. He thought he spotted someone familiar once, but he looked again and they were gone.  
  
Wylan had arranged for half the cargo to be stored, the other half taken to Zelver District and sold. Hawking wares from a merchant gondel was cruder than Geldin District denizens tended to appreciate, but, Wylan wagered, they would make a tidy sum in Zelver District.  
  
Jesper poked at Wylan’s hair.  
  
“Hey,” Wylan objected. When Jesper didn’t stop: “What are you doing? I don’t have lice.”  
  
“I’m well aware of that. But clearly since you have both a mercher’s mind and a demo man’s mind, these curls are hiding some sort of cerebral protrusion.”  
  
“This is why you weren’t studying anatomy, Jes…”  
  
“I’ve been studying yours.”  
  
Wylan blushed.  
  
“You’re cute when you blush,” Jesper murmured, which made him blush more.  
  
When they were heading for the canals at last, Wylan said, “Thank you both for being there. Was it useful, Inej?”  
  
She nodded. “I learned a good deal.”  
  
“You’ll be great,” Jesper said.  
  
“You will,” Wylan agreed. “But how would you know the right ships?”  
  
Jesper frowned. Why was he doing that? Inej was excited about this. It was perfect for her and something she would excel at. Why look for problems?  
  
“I didn’t mean it was a bad plan,” Wylan said, “only—I was thinking about the _Ferolind_ , when we had the Haanraadt flag. Slavers probably do that, too, don’t they?”  
  
Ah—Jesper once more spotted someone he knew. He swallowed a sigh. Best to deal with this rather than let it spoil the evening.  
  
“They do,” Inej agreed. She explained things she knew, things she had learned—how to spot a ship in an unusual location or off season, what to look for in the sailors through a long glass.  
  
Jesper had known she was serious about this, but he had not realized how much time and planning Inej had already put into preparing for her life at sea. That was a difference in the two of them. Inej decided something and laid out an orderly, researched plan. Jesper saw an opportunity and dove in. He learned best when he learned fast.  
  
He reflected on it as he slipped away, leaving Inej and Wylan chatting happily about tactics for identifying slaving ships. He would catch up to them.  
  
“Didn’t think you’d make it this easy, Fahey.”  
  
Jesper was stopped by a couple of low-level types with knives. Really? Knives? He gave them an unimpressed look as his hands went to the mother-of-pearl handles of his revolvers.  
  
“Don’t try anything,” warned one of the men. He pulled a pistol and though he drew slowly, Jesper removed his hands from his revolvers.  
  
He could have killed them. He chose not to. A pre-fight buzz was starting and he wanted to enjoy it.  
  
“Don’t you think this is a mild overreaction?” Jesper asked. Really, they were making themselves look foolish.  
  
“More of a major overreaction.”  
  
Whether or not the man understood ‘overreaction’ remained to be seen, but as two more men joined them, Jesper realized if this turned into a fight, it would be a good one. He felt a fizzing in his blood, a promise of adrenaline in the near future, and—  
  
“What business, gentlemen?”  
  
The fizzing came to a screeching halt. Jesper clenched his jaw; Wylan did not belong here. He was no good in a fight.  
  
“Nothing to concern yourself with,” Jesper said tightly. _Go, Wy._  
  
“My friends and I,” said one of the less than impressive but notably armed men, “are collecting on a little debt. Black Tips will have what they’re owed.”  
  
Wylan nodded. Despite the warning look in Jesper’s eyes, he continued to approach, strolling into the middle of the fight. _Dammit, Wylan._ Jesper didn’t know what had gotten into him, what he thought he was achieving here. He was no Kaz Brekker, not so thoroughly informed nor so wily as to manipulate his way out of this!  
  
“What is the debt?” he asked, and Jesper narrowed his eyes. What exactly was he trying to achieve here? Scaring Jesper? Or embarrassing him?  
  
“Wylan,” Jesper muttered. “Later.”  
  
Wylan ignored him, which only frustrated Jesper more—what did _Wylan Van Eck_ think he knew about a situation like this? It wasn’t even a ‘situation’ for Jesper, just a chat he needed to diffuse. A fight he looked forward to having, just to let off a bit of tension.  
  
One of the men named his debt owed to an Elias Breen.  
  
So much? Jesper felt himself starting to blush and ordered the feeling away. He didn’t know when he had got himself in that deep. And who the hell was Breen?  
  
“Who the hell is Elias Breen?” Jesper asked.  
  
“A man who wants his money.” The statement was accompanied by a menacing step forward and that fizzle of excitement returned, Jesper shifting his stance to meet the challenge.  
  
“He’ll have it,” Wylan said. Coolly as he would in a shop, he took his wallet from his pocket. Either Wylan had gotten over-confident or he was intentionally showing a decent stash of kruge when he only handed over—  
  
“What is this?”  
  
“Two hundred kruge,” Wylan replied.  
  
Jesper put a hand on Wylan’s shoulder, bracing to push him back when the fighting started. Whatever he meant by that stupid move, it was leading to a fight.  
  
“Are you deaf?”  
  
“I’m not deaf. Or stupid. You didn’t know Jesper would be here. You were lucky. If Breen doesn’t trust you with this big a transaction, I won’t, either. That’s a down payment, you tell your boss to send someone of rank to the Exchange next Thursday and we’ll settle this.”  
  
“Eleven bells.”  
  
“Business hours.”  
  
Breen’s men scoffed.  
  
“Business hours,” Wylan repeated, something lofty creeping into his tone, “before lunch if you can manage to roll out of your beds by then.”  
  
_Wylan._  
  
He was going to get himself killed.  
  
“And what’s to stop us taking a little mercher boy like you for the debts and then some?”  
  
Wylan shrugged. “Not much,” he said, “I guess. But she won’t like it.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Me.”  
  
The word came from behind one of the men, the one to the far right who hadn’t realized he had a shadow until Inej put her blade to his throat.  
  
“You can have your debt, or you can have my friends,” she said.  
  
Saints, she was impressive.  
  
Jesper couldn’t see Inej in a romantic way. She was like a sister to him. He understood what Kaz saw, though. How fierce Inej could be. Her honed strength. Her perfect control. The way she could be absolutely terrifying even though he knew she never used more force and violence than she had to.  
  
Her loyalty.  
  
_The company I keep,_ she had said. They might put her in tight spots, but she was there to drag them out.  
  
“It’s up to you,” Wylan said, addressing the Black Tips.  
  
Three of the men looked to their leader, the one who did the talking. He deliberated a moment. Then he nodded.  
  
“All right,” he said, “Thursday, then. The debt paid in full.”  
  
“Minus two hundred kruge,” said Wylan.  
  
With one last attempted ferocious look, the man turned, leading the others away. Only once they had cleared the corner did Jesper drop his hand from Wylan’s shoulder.  
  
“I didn’t need you to do that,” Jesper said.  
  
“They were serious, Jesper,” Inej said, slipping her knife into its sheath as she approached.  
  
“I could’ve taken them!”  
  
“You shouldn’t have to,” Wylan said.  
  
Tense, Jesper told him, “I didn’t ask you to fight my fights.”  
  
“Yes, you did,” Wylan replied, and when Jesper opened his mouth to demand when he had _ever_ even implied as much, Wylan continued, matter-of-fact, “That’s the deal. It’s the same as every time you’ve reached for my hand because I needed you and I mattered to you. You matter to me.”  
  
_I don’t need you_. The words were harsh and false and Jesper bit them back.  
  
He turned away. This wasn’t how Jesper wanted the conversation to play out. He _knew_ he had debts, even beyond the money he borrowed from his da—the money that was repaid now, made right. He hoped. He had wanted a fight. The little ‘experiments’ with his power did seem to soothe his mind a bit and so did time with Wylan, but they didn’t scratch that itch inside him that cried out for adventure. A brawl would have been nice.  
  
Seeming like he needed a rescue was something he liked less.  
  
“Jesper,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper gestured at him: “I need space.”  
  
He needed… what? He needed to fight, he needed to drink, he needed… his hands went to the revolvers at his sides. How was he already thinking it? Saints, how was he thinking it? But he was. He needed to play a hand or two, just enough to scratch an itch.  
  
He hated himself for wanting it, but as he headed away, he wanted nothing more.  
  
“Jes.”  
  
“ _Space_.”  
  
The words came in such a rush, Jesper wasn’t sure at first that he had understood Wylan properly: “That’ll make it very difficult for me to fellate you.”  
  
Jesper stopped still in his tracks.  
  
To _what?_ He hadn’t been sure Wylan knew about that act, let alone its name. While it wasn’t the same fizzle, he couldn’t deny he loved hearing Wylan talk dirty to him. A part of him wanted to hold onto his frustration, but if he did, he would miss the blush he knew would be painting Wylan’s cheeks right now.  
  
Jesper turned.  
  
He was not disappointed.  
  
Even Inej was staring.  
  
The merch was gone. No more proud posture, raised chin, serious face. No more of the teenage boy who climbed onto a ship and gave its captain orders or stood up to admittedly low-level gangsters. In his place was someone with his pink face turned down and a half-smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, but not sorry.  
  
Jesper closed the distance between them in seconds. They could deal with his smarting pride in a moment, for now, something else was happening that he was far keener on being part of.  
  
“Wy, look at me.”  
  
Wylan did. His blush deepened, but his eyes lit. If Inej weren’t there, Jesper might have pushed him against the wall and kissed him breathless. For now, he settled for ghosting his hand over Wylan’s shoulder, barely any pressure—not to hurt him, to remind him of that morning. It might not be the fizzle of a fight, but the crackling air between the two of them was nothing to scoff at.  
  
“I…” Wylan said. “I… was…”  
  
Jesper kissed him once, gently. “Wylan Van Eck, you are priceless.” A high compliment by Kerch standards. Turning to Inej, he said, “Wylan’s buying us all waffles. And I _don’t_ need you paying my debts.”  
  
He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. They could have moved on, but he picked a fight. Wylan raised his chin again, the way he did when he was being stubborn and thought he was right.  
  
“If I don’t pay, you’re still living under them. Something’s going on—there’s no way you had much more than that in debt. I don’t know why the Black Tips bought up your debts and I don’t know who Breen is. All I know is he thinks he can hurt you. If all I have to protect you with is kruge, then—at least I have that. Now you won’t be able to tease me about running up a tab.”  
  
“Not for another month or two,” Jesper replied, setting himself at a very high price to make light of this. He reminded himself that he didn’t want to fight. The prospect of a fistfight excited him, but the prospect of an argument with Wylan stirred up the beginnings of shame.  
  
“Four.”  
  
“Six weeks and you’re getting a bargain! See, I can play ‘merchants and shopkeepers’, too.”  
  
Wylan laughed, a sound Jesper hadn’t known he needed to hear, and said, “One of you will have to lead because I don’t know where to get the best waffles in Ketterdam.”  
  
“I do,” Jesper said.  
  
“I trust you,” Inej said, something else he hadn’t realized he needed to hear, even if only about waffles.  
  
Along the way, Jesper found his mind drifting back to that earlier thought. Pushing Wylan against the wall and kissing him. He would have liked that. He’d talk to Wylan about it first, though. Wylan was strong in his own way, Jesper had seen Kaz push him and get a furious glare in response, but it wasn’t about what he could handle. It was about what he would enjoy. Jesper would ask, find out if Wylan would like that.  
  
In the meantime he was satisfied putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. Wylan settled against Jesper, tapping his arm gently three times before going still.  
  
He knew a place that made savory waffles. It was ridiculous, but somehow delightful, and the three of them took their waffles and went to sit on a bench near the canal. It was far enough off the water to be nice.  
  
“What are the Saints?” Wylan asked.  
  
Inej and Jesper both gave him curious looks. What sort of question was that?  
  
Wylan shrugged. “I was never taught,” he said. “I only learned the Books of Ghezen, not the Saints. Like—Sankt Lizabeta?”  
  
“Sankta Lizabeta,” Inej corrected.  
  
“Sankta Lizabeta. Who was she? Why is her symbol the rose?”  
  
“How do you know her symbol’s the rose?” Jesper asked.  
  
“It’s on Inej’s knife.”  
  
Inej told the story.  
  
“When Lizabeta was 18, raiders came to Ravka’s shores. Everyone was afraid, not only in her town, everywhere in West Ravka. They went to sleep afraid. Some woke up afraid, too, but not Lizabeta. She woke up grateful. She knew she had survived another night. She knew the sky was beautiful and clear and the grass was green and sweet. Sankta Lizabeta was scared like everyone else, but she didn’t live in fear. When the raiders reached her town, most of the villagers hid, but Lizabeta faced the raiders in a field of white roses. She begged for mercy, but they refused to listen.”  
  
“Shockingly,” Jesper added.  
  
Wylan shushed him. Jesper’s attention had been torn between Inej and his waffle; now he noticed the rapt expression on Wylan’s face, his eyes wide and shining.  
  
Jesper knew Inej’s version of the story was embellished. He was not especially religious, but had spent enough time in church with his da to know the story tended to focus more on the miracle than on the girl herself.  
  
He looked again at his friends. Inej was looking off, wrapped up in her story. Wylan was looking at Inej. He hadn’t even turned away to shush Jesper. They both looked so meaningful, Jesper kept his comments to himself.  
  
“Lizabeta didn’t run or cry. She fell to her knees and prayed, even with the men bearing down on her, even when she felt their footsteps shake the ground. Even when she could smell them coming, their sweat, their last meal on their breath… she wasn’t scared. She wasn’t afraid of the men.”  
  
Jesper didn’t notice it until Wylan placed his waffle in his lap and his hands on Inej’s. She glanced at him and smiled, the tension in her shoulders lessening.  
  
“Maybe Sankta Lizabeta was very brave,” Wylan said softly, “but she was scared at the same time.”  
  
“Maybe she wasn’t scared at all. Maybe that was why the gods heard her prayer and sent a swarm of bees to stop the raiders. They saved her whole town.”  
  
“Maybe the Saints only had one purpose,” Jesper suggested.  
  
“Jesper,” Inej scolded.  
  
“Well they did all die,” he pointed out. “Lizabeta was drawn and quartered by the next village over when she couldn’t repeat her miracle.”  
  
“How did they know she couldn’t?” Wylan asked.  
  
“I assume the raiders came,” Jesper said.  
  
“If the raiders came, they all would have been too dead to kill Lizabeta,” Wylan said. “Maybe they killed her because they were afraid of her.”  
  
“Maybe they didn’t understand that a miracle is not like flint and steel to be struck at a moment’s notice,” Inej said.  
  
“Maybe they didn’t kill her at all and she ran away because her village was full of cowards who left her to face the raiders alone,” Jesper said.  
  
“Then how did the roses turn red?” Inej replied.  
  
Jesper shrugged. “They could’ve always been red.”  
  
“From the field where she prayed?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Yes, the roses where Lizabeta prayed,” Jesper explained, “they were white but turned red with her blood. If you two don’t want your waffles, I’ll eat them.”  
  
The reminder was enough for both of them to take a bite, though after he had swallowed, Wylan did say, “We can have seconds if you’re still hungry.”  
  
“Okay,” chorused Jesper and Inej.


	15. Sankta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Physical abuse/intimidation (brief, but it's there)

“Trust me,” Jesper said, and Wylan wasn’t in a position to ask questions. After last night, he owed Jesper everything and wanted to do something for him. This wasn’t quite what he had in mind… but it was what Jesper wanted.  
  
Wylan just nodded.  
  
“The keys are in the bedroom.”  
  
So they went upstairs and Wylan handed over the key to his father’s liquor cabinet.  
  
His liquor cabinet, but he didn’t drink the strong stuff. He never had a taste for it and lost the want for such a taste after that first attempt. It had been bad going down, gave him a warm float far from what he hated for a while, then came back up with his dinner.  
  
Jesper took the key.  
  
Wylan wished he hadn’t. Partly that was selfish: he wanted nothing more than to lie down next to Jesper right now. Partly it was out of concern. Was this about what happened at the docks? He knew it wasn’t fully resolved, not for Jesper, but there had to be a better way to address that! And partly it was anger at himself that he had made Jesper feel like whatever he was working through, he needed to do it alone.  
  
“I’ll be back later. Don’t worry, starlight.”  
  
Wylan nodded. He could feel how reserved Jesper was, he knew there was something he wasn’t saying, but he couldn’t ask.  
  
He couldn’t say, _Jes, are you gambling?_ Couldn’t say, _It’s never just one hand of cards or one spin of the wheel_. He couldn’t do that… because he was afraid he had pushed Jesper away. Maybe that final straw had been that instead of laughing together last night they had been tense and distant, or that he followed up a tough night with that stupid display at the docks. He _knew_ this was foreign for Jesper, he _knew_ Jesper was coming into a different way of living… maybe he just needed a break…  
  
“Take care, Jes.”  
  
Jesper set his hand on Wylan’s cheek. Wylan felt himself flooded with warmth just from that gentle touch, and wished he could do that. He wished he knew how to make the world disappear into a touch or could think of a nickname for Jesper. ‘Jes’ was fine, but it didn’t measure up with Jesper’s half-dozen surprising, endearing titles he threw out so easily.  
  
“Always do,” Jesper said.  
  
One kiss and he was gone.  
  
Wylan listened to Jesper’s footsteps, heard him head downstairs. Heard the door open and close as he left.  
  
After their conversation over that night’s waffles, he had wanted to suggest Jesper should talk to Inej, just to check in on her. Sometimes just knowing someone cared enough to check in meant a lot.  
  
It should have been Jesper. He and Inej had history, a longer friendship. They _were_ friends, while Wylan was more an acquaintance-slash-fan. Even if they didn’t, Jesper was wonderful. He knew how to make someone feel at ease, heard, safe.  
  
Wylan took a deep breath.  
  
Jesper wasn’t here. So Wylan would try.  
  
As he approached her room, he heard the muffled sounds of crying. Something in his belly clenched. She needed a friend. Jesper should… but… but thinking that wasn’t fair to Jesper. He needed his space, too.  
  
Wylan took another slow breath. Inej deserved a friend right now, but an acquaintance was better than being alone.  
  
He knocked softly.  
  
“Inej, it’s Wylan.”  
  
She didn’t reply.  
  
“Um… are you… do you want company?”  
  
There was no reply and no sound from within the room, but this was Inej and he wasn’t entirely surprised to hear the door unlock. The room was dim, but the lamp glowed, keeping true darkness at bay.  
  
“Come in,” Inej said.  
  
Wylan had never seen her crying before. It made him ache that she was hurting; he wanted to apologize immediately for what he said earlier, but that would make the conversation about him.  
  
Inej closed the door behind him and went to sit on the bed.  
  
“Come sit with me,” she said.  
  
He did, sitting next to her and taking her hand.  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.  
  
Inej was quiet. Sniffled, but didn’t speak.  
  
“I could sing something. If you’d like that.”  
  
“I’d like that.”  
  
So Wylan sang her a Kaelish ballad. He didn’t know any Suli songs and he had never done especially well with Ravkan, but maybe those would have made her feel even worse.  
  
By the second song, Inej was leaning against Wylan. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, silently promising them both that as long as she was here, as long as he _could_ , he would do his best for her.  
  
He wasn’t certain about putting his arm around her—would she like that? Would that be okay?  
  
So he asked.  
  
“Is this okay?”  
  
It was what Jesper asked him that morning. Wylan remembered what it had done for him. He had been nervous—wasn’t it normal to be nervous in a new situation? He had not known what was going to happen. He hadn’t known if he was prepared for it. He hadn’t wanted to do a bad job of… whatever it was… but Jesper had asked. He had told Wylan that he could stop this at any time. It made Wylan feel much more comfortable.  
  
Hopefully Inej would feel the same.  
  
“It is,” she said. “When did you know about the Menagerie?”  
  
“At the Ice Court. Before I drew the tattoo.” For once, Wylan Van Eck hadn’t asked a single question. He had known this would be painful for Inej, that it wasn’t the time.  
  
Inej nodded.  
  
Would it help to mention that he didn’t have those feelings for women? No—no, that wasn’t the point. He only meant he didn’t see her that way, as a body to be bought or sold… but neither did anyone else. Neither did Jesper, Kaz, or Nina, and neither had Matthias, all of whom _did_ have those feelings for women. It was entirely irrelevant.  
  
“I think you’re the best person I’ve ever known,” Wylan said. It wasn’t an ‘I think’ like ‘this is what I believe’, but like something he was actually in that moment contemplating. “Is it… is it hard for you to be here? In his house?”  
  
He asked to give her a chance to tell him the truth, but to his surprise, Inej replied, “No. It doesn’t really feel like his house. I was only here with him when Kaz and I took the DeKappel and he was asleep.”  
  
Wylan considered that.  
  
“What happened to him, was it enough?”  
  
Wylan didn’t know the details.  
  
Wylan didn’t _need_ to know the details.  
  
He knew what sort of man Jan Van Eck was, what he would have been willing to do to someone he considered a nobody.  
  
Inej nodded. “It was enough,” she said. “He can’t hurt anyone else.”  
  
Wylan was inclined to agree. His mama, his baby brother or sister, Jesper, Inej—broader, yes. Jan Van Eck had a significant reach. But Wylan thought first of his family.  
  
“He was so cross about the DeKappel. You and Kaz, you bested him first and last.”  
  
Wylan had spent most of the next three days hiding upstairs on the servants’ floor and he had barely stopped grinning the entire time. He didn’t know what happened to the DeKappel—not at the time—but his father had been so proud of it, had bragged so heavily about his unbeatable security system. He was _so_ cross.  
  
“Kaz would be pleased,” Inej offered, and her tone suggested maybe she was… but not as much as Wylan was, not as much as Kaz would be. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”  
  
“Kaz? He would push me, but no more than anyone else.”  
  
“Your father. About the painting.”  
  
“Oh—no, of course not. I had nothing to do with that, so why would he hurt me?”  
  
Inej shook her head. “You are a terrible liar.”  
  
Wylan looked away. She wasn’t looking at him, but he still looked away. “I am. He was in a foul mood and he hi—yes. It was worth it to see someone outdo him, though.”  
  
He remembered. A hand clamped hard on his arm, bruising. Low, venomous words for the coward hiding in his own home. The hymnal in front of him. His father breathing down his neck. _This is not complicated, Wylan, a child could manage._ Not knowing what Jan would do, scared because it could be anything…  
  
Wylan closed his eyes and took as deep a breath as he could manage. Another. Inej was still resting under his arm, though he felt the tension in her now.  
  
He didn’t think an apology would help.  
  
“It’s okay,” Wylan said. He meant to comfort _her_!  
  
_Pathetic._ His father’s voice automatically sounded in his head.  
  
He intentionally sought another voice, another evaluation of Wylan: _brilliant._ It wasn’t, but that was enough to quiet his father’s voice.  
  
“It helped a lot when I talked about it. If you want to talk, I can listen. I could never think anything bad of you.”  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
So they sat in silence for a while.  
  
“Inej?” Wylan asked softly. A ‘may I speak seriously’ question.  
  
“Mm?”  
  
“One day,” halting, unsure, aware this might be just right or incredibly hurtful, “people will tithe to Sankta Inej. Miracles will be worked in her name for all the girls and boys who no one else sees, the big ones, but little ones, too. Kids who have to cry quietly but still feel a hand on their shoulder. No one will feel invisible to her.”  
  
He wasn’t teasing. If there was any such thing as a living Saint, then it was embodied in Inej—who was steady and patient and good through and through. And if anyone had true need of a Saint, it was children with no one to protect them.  
  
Wylan meant what he said, but felt Inej shudder against him with a jolt of worry. Had he said the wrong thing? He didn’t mean the Saints didn’t care about her, too! As Inej started to weep again, Wylan’s mind struggled to find the right words.  
  
She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Wylan.”  
  
It was okay.  
  
“You’re welcome,” he said.  
  
When she felt ready to sleep, Wylan offered to stay, to hold her hand or sing to her until she drifted off. She accepted the offer—but stopped him when he reached for her lamp.  
  
“Leave it,” she said, “please.”  
  
“Of course. Sleep well, Sankta.”  
  
After she was asleep, he left the room as quietly as he could, but he paused in the doorway. He paused to look back. Inej was sleeping with her back turned to the lamp. It cast her face in shadows, but gave enough light to show the furrow in her brow even as she slept.  
  
It wasn’t fair. Everything she had been through—it wasn’t fair.  
  
Shaking his head, Wylan turned to go and stubbed his toe hard on the doorjamb. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. That _hurt!_  
  
Once the door was closed behind him, he felt keenly alone. Inej was asleep. Jesper was gone—was _out_ , he would be back, but he was out. For now.  
  
Wylan told himself that was just as well because there was something he needed to take care of. He stripped the sheet off the bed and laid it out on the floor, then set up his sketchpad. He meant to deal with this earlier. Things just kept coming up and—he would address it now.  
  
He drew ships.  
  
The number of his father’s ships that went down had been bothering Wylan. It bothered him for Inej, too. She would be taking risks and he knew that was her choice to make, but what if he could minimize some of them? Usually he designed smaller things. He could make a firework in any color, boost a magnetic pull… this was big, and Wylan knew it would take time.  
  
It was worth it. He didn’t like the idea that he would be responsible for men and women dying. He already had been, but that was no reason to continue doing so. Abandoning some routes was an option, but what if they could make a better boat instead?  
  
So he sketched. He sketched ships he had seen in the harbor. He sketched the inside of ships he had traveled on, larger ships as best he recalled from his childhood and the smaller _Ferolind_. All he aimed for yet was understanding.  
  
He had filled pages when he decided he was done for the evening. He wasn’t certain yet, but an idea might have been starting to take shape in his mind.  
  
Wylan closed his sketchpad. He put his pens away. He splashed ink down the sheet, regarded it, then splashed more ink before capping his inkwell.  
  
He picked up the sheet and the inkwell and took both into the bathroom. The whole business was concluded quite carefully; the stains were sufficient and Wylan didn’t want them to spread. He ran the water over the inkwell first, rinsing the last drops. It gave the ruined sheet more time to set.  
  
Once he was sure the sheet was ruined, Wylan did his best to “salvage” it. He rinsed the ink—damage done of course. Regarded the sheet.  
  
Perfect.  
  
Now it just looked like a sheet someone had stained with ink, a sheet that had been nice, a rather pleasant yellow. The trouble was it had been a rather pleasant yellow with a blaze where a troubled Fabrikator ripped the color.  
  
Wylan planned to speak to Jesper about it soon. When the time was right. For now, he retrieved another sheet, pausing briefly outside Inej’s door. Good: she was asleep.  
  
He wasn’t going to make someone else clean up a mess he intentionally made, especially during their off hours. He knew perfectly well that they worked quite hard. Instead, he worked at making the bed himself. He had seen how the corners looked when he removed the sheet. Tugged the sheet even. Folded the corners down. And again. At one point, as he decided there was nothing for it but to completely start over, he had thought about just lying down without a sheet—was that really so bad for one night?—but this was Jesper’s bed, too.  
  
With the sheet ruined and the bed made, Wylan put out the lamp, crawled under the covers, and waited. He used the time to try to think up nicknames for Jesper.  
  
Maybe he should use a personal quality? But the first thing that came to mind was that Jesper was just… he was bright. He brightened up the room. Unfortunately Jesper had already laid claim to Sunshine and Starlight for Wylan—both of which, Wylan thought, actually suited Jesper far better, but he didn’t think he would be able to convince Jesper to give them up.  
  
What else was bright? Fires? Firelight? No, that was both silly and too close to Starlight. Firefly. That was dumb. Fire… flame… glowing… stuff?  
  
Wylan was really bad at this. He knew that. He couldn’t even _imagine_ saying most of this without blushing.  
  
Handsome?  
  
Uncreative, but accurate. Also, something Wylan couldn’t say without blushing. It was objectively true, but too… well… too _flirtatious_!  



	16. Lies and Necessities

_Trust me.  
  
I’ll be back later.   
  
Don’t worry._  
  
Jesper knew when he left that Wylan wasn’t fulfilling his part of the deal. His eyes had been soft, concerned, and his lips parted just slightly around questions he struggled not to ask. He looked lost, teetering so carefully on the brink of wounded, Jesper had been tempted to just stay. He had been tempted in more ways than one if he was being completely honest.  
  
But this needed to happen tonight, so Jesper grinned a confident grin and left with a promise to return. He grabbed a bottle from Van Eck’s drinks cabinet—something strong, but not too good—and headed out.   
  
Jesper had no intention of drinking the entire bottle himself.  
  
No… he fully intended to share.  
  
Jesper left with time enough to catch his new friend the hostler, and it didn’t take more than stating where the drink came from to coax the man into swigging from the bottle.  
  
Didn’t take more than a couple of too-loud laughs and a suggestion—“Let’s head down to the canal, bit more private.”  
  
“I know a spot.”  
  
The night was thick with fog. It carried sounds, but distorted them, too, and the boathouse gave privacy enough that Jesper had no concerns about being overheard. Added bonus of the fog, in addition to the hostler’s personality: no one was likely to look for the man, and if they did, they wouldn’t easily spot him.  
  
This—for some—was a night for heavy drinking. Jesper knew he didn’t hold his liquor well and only pretended, bringing the bottle up and letting the drink slosh against his lips.  
  
Jan Van Eck wasn’t coming home. The past few days had made that clear. Knowing the man’s preference for Jan over his son, Jesper waited until he was unsteady to raise the subject: “Doesn’t seem like Mister Van Eck is coming back any time soon.”  
  
The hostler expressed his disgust by spitting on the ground. “Stuck with the brat.”  
  
_Not for long,_ Jesper silently assured the man.  
  
“Dunno what someone like you sees in him. He doesn’ have a right t' th… money.”  
  
He was slurring now.   
  
Good.  
  
“There’s more to him than that,” Jesper said.  
  
“Ahyeah?” the hostler asked.  
  
_Damn_. Little too much honesty in his tone there.   
  
Jesper took a real drink, letting the whiskey coat his throat like that could keep the words from touching him. He knew what he was about to say and hated the person who was saying it—but he hated the person believing it more.  
  
“Flautist,” Jesper prompted. “Talented hands, and he makes the sweetest sounds.”  
  
_I hate you._  
  
“Yeah?” the hostler asked.   
  
_Saints, I don’t mean this. I **don’t,** Wylan._   
  
It wasn’t untrue. Jesper loved Wylan’s gasps and whimpers when Jesper kissed him or pulled him close or sucked bruises down his shoulder. Jesper was well aware this was all new to Wylan. It was theirs, intimate. And because Wylan had no prior experience, he vocalized each newly discovered note of pleasure, gratifying Jesper immensely.  
  
He felt the bad kind of filthy even mentioning this to anyone else.  
  
He had to sell it. Took another sip, felt it burn.   
  
At least, Jesper thought, he could lie.  
  
“Whimpers like a kicked puppy.”  
  
The hostler laughed. “Yeah, he begs nice.”  
  
_I hate you._  
  
“Bet you heard how he squeals like a little girl.”  
  
**_I hate you._**   
  
In fact he had never hated anyone more. It took a good deal for someone to offer Jesper a bet and have him reply with only the desire to punch him in the face.  
  
“You… huh?”  
  
Luckily the hostler was too caught up in his own amusement to notice that Jesper’s posture was less relaxed than it was meant to be. How many jobs had he followed Kaz on, how many times had he affected some conceit or another? It had never been this bad. Giving up his babies in Club Cumulus hadn’t been this bad. At least Smeet saw their value.  
  
_Just confess it already.  
  
_“Nah, he’s all yours. Boy’s a imbsile… imbess…”  
  
Quite the word to stumble over.  
  
Giggling now, the hostler simplified: “Can’t read a word. Ussd’a help the ol’ man… teach th’ idiot.”  
  
_Watch who you’re calling an idiot._  
  
“Oh, look at that,” Jesper said, pointing vaguely into the dark canal water.  
  
“Huh?”  
  
The hostler leaned forward.  
  
“See, just there.”  
  
He leaned in further.  
  
Jesper put a hand on his back and shoved him. He crouched by the water, waiting to see if the hostler would make his way to the surface again. When he did, gasping, Jesper placed a hand on his head and shoved it under.  
  
This would have been an excellent time to fight for one’s life. Unfortunately the hostler had half a bottle of whiskey down his throat and at least two mouthfuls of canal water chasing it. Jesper held him down until the bubbles stopped. It didn’t take long.  
  
_Can I come with you?  
  
Not today._  
  
Jesper had been young, but old enough to know when something unusual was happening. Da leaving the farm in the late afternoon, for example, was unusual. He had said something in passing that made clear he was headed into town. Naturally, Jesper wanted to go.  
  
He had been well prepared to pout about it.  
  
_I need my little rabbit._   
  
All prepared to pout, but Ma scooped him up and she had that look on her face promising adventures.  
  
_Take care, Colm,_ she had said.  
  
Jesper looked between his parents. Whatever Da was doing, it was serious. But then—he had known that when Da came in early, when he said he needed to go… when he had that look on his face. There was a set to his jaw, something too much in the way he looked at Jesper. Like this was more than an errand, this was important.  
  
All of which only made Jesper considerably more curious.  
  
That night, Jesper had done the logical thing. After Ma tucked him into bed, he stayed awake. It wasn’t difficult. The difficult part was staying still in bed so Ma thought he had fallen asleep already. He had stayed there faking sleep until he heard slow hoofbeats outside. The pause while Da looked after the horse. Only then did Jesper slip out of bed.  
  
_Well?  
  
It’s handled, Aditi. The boy is safe.  
  
_‘The boy’? Did that mean him? When had he not been safe?  
  
_The tailor?  
  
He'll live, and we left his hands untouched. How’s Jes?  
  
He's fine, sleeping. He asked about where you went tonight. I don’t want him to know about this._  
  
Jesper had been bothered by that—had his da done something bad? But Ma didn’t sound angry with him. (Jesper would know.) Unable to reconcile it, Jesper crept back to bed and snuggled under the covers, doing a passable impersonation of sleep when Da looked in on him.  
  
It wasn’t until years later that he was able to put all the pieces together, not until the tailor took on a new apprentice, a fragile girl who had to be taken off her family’s farm because the pollen made her lungs close up. She lasted three months. After she was buried in the boneyard, the tailor turned up beaten to death. No one investigated.   
  
Da had not helped kill the man, Jesper knew that, but he had taken heavily what happened to him. Jesper found him outside, watching the storm roll in. Colm had looked at him for a long moment, put a hand on his head, then quietly hugged Jesper. It wasn’t a normal hug. Jesper couldn’t explain why, but he knew him being here was comforting Da, despite the fact it was Jesper being hugged.  
  
_That’s where you went, isn’t it, Da? When I was little, you went out that night? You told Ma you didn’t touch his hands…  
  
Aye, that’s where I was. We thought we’d sent him the message clear enough, but…  
  
You think you should’ve killed him?_ Jesper had asked. _  
  
I don’t know,_ Colm admitted. _Your ma wouldn’t have approved of that, but maybe if she knew it could have saved another child… I don’t know._  
  
They never talked about that night again, though Jesper knew Colm was troubled by it. He had turned the idea over and over in his head: first that his da had been part of a posse once, second that some of those same men had gone back and cleaned up their mistakes.  
  
Jesper thought about it as he carefully made his way back to the mansion on Geldstraat. He kept his steps to the path, to stones where he could, even though there was every reason for Jesper’s footprints to be here on the path outside his home.  
  
Jan Van Eck was beyond his reach now.   
  
The memories built into this stupid, comfortable, sprawling old place, they would take time to defeat. New memories could take their place. With time.   
  
But Wylan didn’t need to wake up every morning knowing he would see the man who had beaten him. Who had liked it. Who, if he found two brain cells to rub together, might have used Wylan’s secret to any nefarious end. Today would be the last time Wylan ever had to fear him.  
  
There was a personal investment as well, Jesper was quite happy with his new life and did not want to risk losing it.  
  
And it was right. It was just _right_ to pay back an abuser.  
  
Jesper’s heart had calmed by the time he reached their bedroom.  
  
He paused for a few seconds. His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he could just make out Wylan, the steady rise and fall of his chest.  
  
_It will get better,_ Jesper swore silently.  
  
Maybe because he was tired, because he was a touch tipsy, or just because he wanted to minimize the time between now and being in bed, he didn’t worry about his nightshirt. Just carefully, quietly removed his boots, socks, trousers, shirt. Found the bed. Found his prince who woke up in the wrong story, who woke up back in the right story and didn’t know who he was anymore.  
  
Jesper skipped the pillows. He rested his head on Wylan’s chest instead, wrapped an arm across him. Wylan’s breathing remained steady. He was asleep. Jesper wasn’t sure if that was better or worse—he wouldn’t have minded hearing Wylan’s voice, but didn’t know how to explain where he had been.  
  
Even as he settled against him, Jesper felt a discordance. He heard his own words echoed. The lewd things he hadn’t wanted to say.  
  
And he said the only thing that could drive those memories out.  
  
“I love you, Wy.”  
  
Wylan’s breath caught audibly.  
  
“…you’re awake, aren’t you?”  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“Dammit.”  
  
“I’m sorry!”   
  
Jesper would have pulled him close if he had not been already halfway on top of Wylan.   
  
“I was waiting for you, I—”  
  
It wasn’t about that.  
  
“The first time you heard me say that was supposed to be more romantic.”  
  
“I’m… I didn’t…”  
  
“Shh,” Jesper murmured. “You’re doing fine, babe.”  
  
Wylan put an arm around Jesper and said in a breathless rush, “’kay but I love you too.”  



	17. Aftermath

Jesper was in a half-waking place, just starting to work a few small stretches to ease the sleepy stiffness from his muscles, when the knock came at the door.  
  
His eyes flew open. He knew what this was about. A merchant’s household staff didn’t go knocking on his bedroom door for nothing. There were loads of reasons someone might knock on Jesper’s bedroom door, but not Wylan’s.  
  
Jesper wasn’t sorry for what he did last night. That man deserved what he got. It had seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do yesterday. Today, after a good night’s sleep, he was worried—would Wylan approve? He wasn’t entirely sensible about these things.  
  
Righteous. He was righteous. (Was a much nicer phrasing than “inexplicably uptight about murder”.)  
  
“Mister Wylan!”  
  
Wylan groaned. Apparently he wasn’t ready to wake up, but this wouldn’t wait. Jesper sat up and gave Wylan’s shoulder a shake.  
  
“Get up,” he mumbled.  
  
“Yeah,” Wylan agreed, blearily pushing himself into a sitting position. Looking to the door, he called, “Yes?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Mister Wylan, but there’s been an incident.”  
  
Jesper turned, letting his legs fall over the side of the bed. He would have liked to spend more time under the covers, but he knew Wylan would have to deal with Important Mercher Business. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to see Wylan’s face just now, not if he was—what? Angry. Disappointed. Jesper drummed his fingers against his knees.  
  
“One of the girls found Prior this morning, he’s passed on. He drowned last night. He had been drinking. It looks like he broke into your f… into your liquor cabinet.”  
  
“Oh,” Wylan said. “All right. I… I’ll be there in just a few minutes, thank you.”  
  
Was he bothered by the news? Jesper wasn’t sure. Maybe he was just tired. It was still early.  
  
He had to know, didn’t he?  
  
Jesper had been out late.  
  
He had taken the key to the liquor cabinet.  
  
Drumming faster now, Jesper wondered if it wouldn’t be worth finding a reason to get out of the mansion today, out of Geldin District. Not to get himself into any trouble. Maybe he would play a few hands, just enough to—  
  
After the door had closed and they were alone, Wylan all but plastered himself to Jesper’s back, arms wrapping around him.  
  
“Thank you,” he gasped. Between kisses dropped on Jesper’s shoulder: “Thank you, thank you, Jesper.”  
  
Jesper reached up to squeeze Wylan’s hands. His breathing steadied some.  
  
“Anything for you.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Hey.” Jesper twisted just enough to slide an arm around Wylan’s waist and pull him closer. _Look at me right now. This is important._ It let him really look into Wylan’s eyes, too, look for any disgust or anger in his face. He saw none. Relief, something else… but not disgust or anger. “Nobody hurts you. Not anymore.”  
  
Wylan gave a very serious but very small nod. “You didn’t have to do that for me. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to push you back into this.”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
Jesper began to nod, then hesitated. Was he? He had killed before, but this felt different. The truth was, it bothered him some. Maybe it was the fact he planned it or coming too close…  
  
“You did the right thing,” Wylan said softly.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
“Saints,” Jesper said, finally seeing what was in his eyes. “You’ve still been scared.”  
  
Wylan shivered and touched his neck. He made several attempts before he got the words out: “He hurt me, Jes. He liked hurting me.”  
  
The words assuaged some of Jesper’s guilt. The tone assuaged the rest. Not only was the hostler an objectively bad person, Jesper heard the pain the man had caused.  
  
Wylan rested his hand on Jesper’s cheek. Jesper felt the tremor, but leaned in anyway.  
  
“Yes, I’ve still been scared,” Wylan said, “and I never would have asked you to do this, but I’m grateful you did. I’m so lucky to have you.”  
  
A soft sigh escaped Jesper’s lips. He didn’t fully understand why he felt the way he did, but—he could just about melt into those words. So long he had wanted this. All his time in the Dregs, watching, waiting for someone—someone particular, someone special—to tell him…  
  
Wylan’s thumb brushed Jesper’s cheek.  
  
“Thank you, Jesper.”  
  
It was the fifth time he had said that, but the tone was different now. Not hectic, not desperate. Quiet and genuine.  
  
Another kiss, a gentle press of Wylan’s mouth against him.  
  
“I need to go be a merch, but I’d rather stay here with you all day.”  
  
Regretfully, Jesper recognized that Wylan getting out of bed now was the right choice.  
  
“And you need trousers.”  
  
“You do, too.”  
  
“I like you without, though.”  
  
He couldn’t hide his surprise—not that Wylan liked him without trousers, but that he would say it!  
  
“Likewise, sunshine.”  
  
Jesper looked for something to wear, ideally something so bright and colorful it offended everyone else on Geldstraat. Luckily that meant just about anything he owned. He was torn between the green paisley trousers and the red lattice print trousers. They were both delightful. Obviously. After a moment, he picked the green.  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
At the question, and at the answer, Jesper’s mood dipped. He turned to look at Wylan. He looked considerably more awake as he regarded Jesper for a long moment. Then he turned away and likewise went to pick out something to wear, unlike Jesper considering shades from smoke grey to charcoal black. Mercher colors.  
  
“Want me to turn around?”  
  
“It’s… it’s okay if you want to look.”  
  
Jesper raised an eyebrow. Wylan didn’t turn to face him, but if he was offering, who was Jesper to turn him down? He watched Wylan remove his nightshirt. The ridges of his spine and freckles dusting his curled shoulders…  
  
The little shivers.  
  
“I’m not looking. I told you, you don’t need to do anything you’re not ready for.”  
  
Jesper turned his back and focused on buttoning his waistcoat. He couldn’t talk about this and look at half-naked Wylan even if Wylan had been ready. He clearly wasn’t.  
  
“The scars on the horses’ backs. That’s how I knew.”  
  
That was no way to train up an animal. For most of his life, Jesper had been around horses. They were a practicality on the farm; one didn’t hop a gondel in Novyi Zem. He knew how to treat a horse, and it wasn’t with a whip that left lasting marks.  
  
“You said he had someone else involved and I knew who would hurt an innocent.”  
  
Wylan sighed. “I never understood,” he said. Jesper felt a spark of hope—was Wylan questioning what his father had done to him? Unprompted?—then he continued, “at Caryeva, he liked to see spirit in a foal. Then he would bring it home…”  
  
And he would break it.  
  
Which was the most Jan Van Eck thing Jesper had ever heard.  
  
“Hey, beautiful.”  
  
Wylan turned to him, still buttoning the last buttons of his shirt.  
  
“I said beautiful and you looked,” Jesper said, pleased with himself. It would take time… but they had time for him to slowly replace Wylan’s bad memories with positive ones. Good words to drive out the bad.  
  
“I… I wanted to watch you talk to yourself.”  
  
Sometimes Jesper was torn. Wylan needed and deserved more confidence, but the way he stammered and blushed when he tried to flirt was so endearing Jesper could actually feel it lodging in his chest. He just wanted for that to happen without Wylan looking away.  
  
Jesper grinned. “I like when you’re bold.”  
  
Wylan replied but it was too soft for Jesper to make out more than the word ‘rare’.  
  
“So do it more and spoil me.”  
  
Jesper was fairly certain Wylan was smiling, but it was hard to tell with the way his shoulders came up and his head ducked lower.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Jesper took a step nearer. Gently, he gripped Wylan’s chin and guided him into eye contact. He had seen Wylan vulnerable before. This was… different. Maybe because Wylan was vulnerable because he chose to share a part of himself. Maybe because he didn’t look scared. Because it was hope shining in his bright blue eyes.  
  
“Stay with me,” Jesper said softly. _You promised, Wylan._  
  
Wylan responded by throwing his arms around Jesper and kissing him. Like he had the first time. _Fireworks._ A sparking thread that gave him that familiar rush, adrenaline twining with the way his hands felt against Wylan, the small of his back and the silk of his hair; the taste of Wylan’s mouth. Neither of them had brushed their teeth and another time Jesper might mind that.  
  
They broke apart when neither had enough breath to keep going, but, Jesper thought giddily, they could always do that again.  
  
Wylan was grinning with only a hint of uncertainty as he said, “Hey, handsome.”  
  
If they could have spent the rest of the day or their lives in that room, at the moment, Jesper wouldn’t have objected. Unfortunately duty called. Wylan finished buttoning his shirt, tucked it in, and looked almost passably like he might have been a regular son of a merch. He didn’t have a jacket that didn’t look ridiculous, but he pulled a sweater over the shirt.  
  
“That’s not merch-colored,” Jesper observed. “That’s _red_. That’s _embroidered!_ ”  
  
Adornment was not very Kerch, certainly not very mercher. The rules were ridiculous, of course. Anything that was a sign of wealth could be a sign of Ghezen’s favor and thus acceptable; a pin indicating one’s house affiliation or job was acceptable; but the leaves knitted into Wylan’s sleeves…  
  
“Ruby and gold laurel,” Wylan explained.  
  
Ah.  
  
“Hang on, I thought all your clothes were too big.”  
  
“I really need to go deal with—”  
  
“Is that—”  
  
“Ghezen’s books…”  
  
Jesper grinned. It _was_.  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” he said, swiftly losing the fight against laughter.  
  
“It fits me!”  
  
“It’s actually a little long—”  
  
“Jesper!”  
  
Getting hold of his laughter, Jesper reached over and fixed Wylan’s collar where it had been trapped under the sweater.  
  
“You look nice,” he said. “Really.”  
  
All that laughing must have damaged his credibility.  
  
“She’ll be happy to see you.” Jesper would joke about a lot of things, but not about Marya.  
  
The body, when they reached the canal, was unpleasant: water-logged and ripening. Wylan held a handkerchief over his nose and mouth in a move Jesper suspected was as much to protect himself from the smell as to hide the fact that he was not the least bit sorry to see this. He tipped the bodymen after they fished the bastard out of the water.  
  
Jesper was unmoved. Enough time in the Barrel would do that to a man. His biggest concern was watching the evidence of his crime disappear.  
  
On the way back inside, Wylan said, “I’ll have to find someone else to care for the horses—someone who can be gentle with them.”  
  
He moved closer, sliding an arm around Jesper. He was too short for an arm around his shoulders, so Jesper put an arm around Wylan’s shoulders instead, keeping him close and both their gaits just a touch unsteady.  
  
“Hmm,” Jesper mused, “where could you find someone like that?”  
  
“Would you—”  
  
“Yes, happily.”  
  
Wylan laughed. “At least let me _ask_!”  
  
“You’re right. Ask away.”  
  
“Would you look after the horses today?”  
  
“Happy to.”  
  
“You don’t have to, it’s—”  
  
“I like horses. The animals were one of the few parts of the farm that held my attention.”  
  
Most of farming was dull, repetitive work that only made Jesper’s restlessness worse when his mind felt like it had been cooped up for hours on end. Animals were interesting. They were always changing and brought the challenge of considering both their and his perspective—why they might be agitated, for example, how he could soothe them.  
  
“You don’t have to,” Wylan repeated firmly.  
  
“I want to,” Jesper retorted, only teasing him a little.  
  
It was enough to put the topic to rest. They continued inside in silence for a minute.  
  
Then, hesitant, “About… about what we said last night, I… I meant it.”  
  
“I did too.”  
  
Maybe it was different to say in the light. Jesper certainly felt that, even knowing that Wylan felt it, too.  
  
“If you didn’t, it’s okay.”  
  
“Oh,” Jesper said, stung more than he cared to admit. Had he moved too fast? Didn’t Wylan _want_ Jesper to love him? Or did he just not want it right now?  
  
“No—hey, it’s not like that.” Wylan stepped in front of Jesper and paused. Jesper started fidgeting with the buttons on his shirt, but Wylan took his hands instead. “Jes, listen. If you were just—I know how you can be after a fight, and you’d been drinking. I just want you to be happy. If you said something you didn’t mean—”  
  
“I said what I meant, Wylan.”  
  
“Okay. I’m glad you did.”  
  
Jesper huffed, annoyed and not entirely convinced. “I know I make mistakes, but I’m not that big a podge.”  
  
The path was uneven and Wylan had to stand on tiptoe to kiss Jesper, very nearly falling on him in the process. Jesper wouldn’t have objected.  
  
“There’s much more good in you than bad, Jesper Fahey.”  
  
Hearing that set something at ease in him, sparked something warmer than the weak sunlight. That wasn’t how he was used to being seen. He thought of himself as the life of the party—though he was still shaken up by how thoroughly that had been debunked by his friends—or as clever, fun, a handful but worthwhile, a disaster on occasion. _Good_ was news to him.  
  
Apparently Wylan took to heart Jesper’s request for boldness.  
  
“You sure about that?” Jesper asked.  
  
“I’m sure.” Wylan fell back beside him and took Jesper’s hand. “Let’s go—I should tell Miss Molenaar we may have a guest tonight.”  
  
“Giving a name?”  
  
“No.”  
  
There was no good approach to this situation. Either Wylan told everyone the truth and let them think he was crazy for a while, or he showed up with his mother—surprise! He had opted for surprise. Jesper supported him, partly because the choice made as much sense as any, partly because he was a good boyfriend, and partly because it was going to be so hilarious to see all the reactions when Marya arrived.  
  
Bringing Marya home was a solid ‘maybe’. The visits had gone increasingly well, but nothing Jesper had ever seen told him what to expect. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t whole, either.  
  
He wondered what his da would say. He should write him.  
  
The kitchen should have made Jesper hungry. Mostly it made him feel calm. His kitchen-related memories were jumbled up with his ma, childhood and safety and adventures. No one wove a day with adventures the way she had.  
  
The cook wasn’t there. Jesper glanced around for indications of breakfast—the kitchen didn’t _make_ him hungry, that didn’t mean he _wasn’t_ hungry.  
  
Wylan found another distraction.  
  
“Gavrie?”  
  
He was crouched over something in the corner. Coming closer, Jesper saw that it was a child, curled under a blanket and shivering, his face shiny with sweat.  
  
“Who is he?” Jesper asked softly.  
  
“Miss Molenaar’s nephew. He’s really sick,” Wylan observed, touching the boy’s forehead.  
  
“It’s not plague.”  
  
Jesper and Wylan turned. They hadn’t noticed the cook’s return, but she was here now, nervous.  
  
“It’s not. They say the plague looks like death, that’s a regular sickness.”  
  
Wylan nodded. “He looks so cold,” he said.  
  
The boy’s eyes opened, bleary but present.  
  
“But not plague.”  
  
“No, of course not,” Jesper agreed. Especially since the plague was something Kaz and Nina invented, not a real malady. Miss Molenaar was nervous and Wylan was too distracted by the sick child to know what to say.  
  
“Was there something you needed?” she asked.  
  
“Does he need to stay here?” Wylan asked, not answering her question. “He’d be more comfortable in the sitting room. It’s not as warm but we have thicker blankets.”  
  
The cook was staring at him. So was Jesper, though his was a different sort of staring. She was staring because this wasn’t merchant behavior. If most merchants found a servant’s child asleep on their settee, they might fire the servant, at the very least evict the child. Jesper was staring because this was very possibly the best Wylan he had yet seen. This kind, idealistic creature ignoring how things were done because his heart said otherwise—this was who he was meant to be.  
  
“Miss Molenaar, may I move Gavrie?”  
  
“I… yes, you may,” she said.  
  
“It’s okay, Gavrie,” Wylan told the child, lifting him carefully. Jesper had teased Wylan for not being especially strong. He had been right, but this was something Wylan needed to do. Rather than offer to help, Jesper placed a hand on Wylan’s back to steady him as he climbed to his feet.  
  
The situation was fascinating.  
  
Wylan wasn’t a very good criminal. He had learned half the skills, but never the spirit, never seemed to see the fun in a good fight—just learned to survive it.  
  
Wylan wasn’t a very good mercher. Maybe he would have a knack for the trade itself, like with the shipment of fruits they had sent to Zelver District, but he wasn’t suited to the lifestyle.  
  
He was suited to this.  
  
He was good at this.  
  
Jesper leaned against the doorjamb, watching Wylan set the boy down. He closed the curtains—“It’s really bright in here, isn’t it? That’s better.”—and tucked a heavy blanket around him.  
  
Gavrie’s expression shifted to what might have been a smile. “Soft,” he murmured.  
  
“It is soft,” Wylan agreed. He brought the blanket a little higher, brushing it against Gavrie’s cheek.  
  
Gavrie grinned. It was weak, but it was a grin.  
  
“Try to sleep. You’ll soon feel better.”  
  
Miss Molenaar was looking at Wylan like he’d sprouted a second head—but a really pretty head, even nicer than the first. There wasn’t _much_ room for improvement, Jesper readily admitted. Maybe more freckles. His freckles were nice, but he had too few of them. That was how Miss Molenaar looked at Wylan, as something inexplicable but delightful, like she didn’t know what to do with him.  
  
Jesper was rather more unsettled that he knew _exactly_ what he wanted to do with Wylan. It was too much, too soon, and Jesper knew he was falling too hard and too fast. But at the moment he, Jesper L. Fahey, the boy who never thought farther than the next hand of cards or spin of the wheel or brawl in an alley, was entirely certain he wanted to put a ring on the merchling’s finger and take him to bed every night for the rest of their lives.  
  
_Too hard, too fast,_ he told himself.  
  
After he carefully, quietly closed the sitting room door, Wylan said, “I don’t think Sveta’s trained to handle illness, only injuries.”  
  
Because _of course_ that was his concern, not one person staring at him like he was an eccentric at best and another like he was the fluffiest, crispiest waffle in existence.  
  
Miss Molenaar nodded. “Thank you.”  
  
“It’s nothing. I was in the kitchen earlier to tell you we may be expecting a guest for dinner tonight.”  
  
Jesper waited until he and Wylan were alone, taking the time to try to think up what to say. He rubbed the back of his neck. The words weren’t coming. Since when did he have trouble finding the words?  
  
“He’s just a little child,” Wylan said. “I _know_ that’s not how merchants are supposed to behave, but he’s a child and he looked so cold. I won’t have that in my house.”  
  
Jesper regarded him for a moment, then felt a slow smile creep over his lips.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small detail but any crafty readers may have noticed that Jesper referred to Wylan's sweater as embroidered but it was described more like fair isle. It's fair isle--I actually thought perhaps too much about this, and while Jesper knows how to sew, that seemed like a practical skill more than a hobby. (Although now I want to write something about Jesper learning to knit as an alternative fidget so there's that...)
> 
> Anyway, to explain the discrepancy, Wylan's sweater is fair isle, for those like me who worry about these things :)


	18. Not Everyone Can Aim

Jesper was a passable climber.   
  
In other company, he might have deemed himself an excellent climber, someone with skills worth boasting—but around Inej Ghafa, ‘passable’ counted as high praise. The freestanding mansion on Geldstraat had advantages and challenges. There was no neighboring house to check for easier access, for example, but Jesper didn’t need to worry about being spotted since he lived here.  
  
Fingers on an eave above him, he shifted one foot off a gable, one of the decorative rooves on the mansion. This was going to be a difficult move. He lodged his foot against a small decorative gouge, and—  
  
And his foot slipped.  
  
Jesper felt a spark of adrenaline the heartbeat before slim, strong fingers closed around his wrist.  
  
“I’ve got you.”  
  
“Inej! Fancy meeting you here!”  
  
Inej grinned down at him and helped Jesper up onto the roof.  
  
“Quite the view,” Jesper said.  
  
It was strange how many of the buildings he saw were grander than the Van Eck mansion; previous Van Ecks seemed the type to like being the biggest in the room. At least, Jan Van Eck had seemed that way—and a small, nasty but not unfair part of Jesper hoped he learned soon in Hellgate what it was _not_ to be the biggest. But the view from the roof showed the university, the Church of Barter, the government buildings. There were neighbors, of course, and the ocean on the horizon, but not too many people too close.   
  
Jesper glanced at Inej with a sly grin. “Admit it, you want to climb me again. Just for the view.”  
  
She replied with a half-smile.  
  
“It’s a different city from up here.”  
  
“It’s a different city from anywhere in the Geldin District,” Inej replied.  
  
“What do you do most days?” he asked. “I know Wylan goes to see Marya. I try to keep myself out of trouble here. What do you do?”  
  
“Business,” Inej said. “It’s nice being here, but I can’t forget the past two years. I can’t just walk away.”  
  
Jesper nodded. He understood.  
  
He had walked away from a life before.  
  
Jesper thought back to those days at the university. It hadn’t been the same Ketterdam, but it hadn’t been a particularly appealing Ketterdam for him. It was quiet, studious. Dull. That Jesper would have felt the same way about the Geldin District. The Jesper he was today, however…  
  
“I’m not better, Inej.”  
  
She led him to a chimney they could sit against, opting for the side that looked out at the ocean. It was the chilliest part of the roof, catching the clearest breeze, but that provided some relief on a warm day.  
  
Only then did Inej ask, “Did something happen?”  
  
Jesper sighed. He rubbed his face, then settled his hands on his thighs. His fingers were drumming ten seconds later.  
  
“Jes, what are you thinking?”  
  
“Thinking about him,” Jesper replied, expecting that was explanation enough. “I’ve practiced with it a bit, done some small things, tried, but… first, I don’t know what I’m doing, and second, I might not think about cards as much, but I’m not better.”  
  
Had it really only been a matter of days ago that he promised her there would be no echo? Since he promised his da the same?  
  
A week, _maybe_.  
  
A week and already he was sliding back into old habits.  
  
“Why are you saying that?” Inej asked. Again: “Did something happen?”  
  
“I didn’t do anything.”  
  
“That’s not what I asked…”  
  
He sighed and stroked his guns. “For a few seconds,” he began.  
  
Stopped.  
  
Suddenly even coming up here seemed like a ridiculous idea. Jesper looked down; from this angle he could just see the horses milling about. Keeping horses in Ketterdam was such a ridiculous affectation. Still, he had enjoyed looking after them. He had seen glimpses of their personalities—which was skittish, which was defiant, all locked beneath years of rough conditioning.  
  
He liked working with horses. So why did he feel this way? Why had he looked for Inej?  
  
“I want to marry Wylan.”  
  
Jesper followed up with a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob and ran a hand over his hair. He had expected Inej to laugh, but she didn’t.  
  
“That’s stupid. I don’t—it’s barely been a week since the first time he kissed me. Things are slow but they’re not normal, I don’t know what normal is with him, but I want it. This morning he found out his cook had her sick kid here, so he picked up this kid, tucked him in on the sofa, and shut off the sitting room so he could rest. Saints, it was the sexiest thing I’ve ever—sorry,” Jesper cut himself off, realizing that was taking things a bit too far.  
  
It had been, though. Wylan being Wylan, being confident, the look on his face… _Saints_.   
  
“Just over a week, and here I am thinking about buying a ring like a complete podge. I want to get him a puppy just to watch him being happy and adorable, then I would joke about him being similar to the puppy and he would kiss me—it’s like my brain is melting.”  
  
“Oh, Jes.”  
  
“I told you,” he said glumly, “I’m not better. I just shifted my attention.”  
  
Inej bumped her shoulder against his arm. “Jesper, you’re not sick. You’re falling in love.”  
  
“That is absurd.”  
  
“It’s also accurate.”  
  
“Okay, maybe I’m falling in love, but it’s too fast. I shouldn’t be falling in love.”  
  
“What do you like about Wylan?”  
  
Jesper considered. There was a lot to like, and he needed a moment to decide where to start.  
  
“You’re smiling,” Inej said. “You’re smiling just thinking about him.”  
  
“It’s too soon,” Jesper said. Didn’t she see that? “Besides, he doesn’t feel that way about me.”  
  
“You don’t read people very well.”  
  
“You’ve mentioned that before.”  
  
On the _Ferolind_ —and he acknowledged she had been correct. Back when Jesper thought Nina and Matthias couldn’t stand each other, Inej had seen that they were in love.  
  
This was not the same thing.  
  
“It can’t last. That’s the wound. I want to think it will, but it can’t. He doesn’t want it,” Jesper said. Inej opened her mouth, and he was quick to add, “He told me.”  
  
She frowned. “Wylan said that?”  
  
Jesper nodded.  
  
“He said he didn’t want to be with you?”  
  
“He—not exactly—I said I loved him.” Did she think he had been foolish? He probably had. Saying he loved Wylan, _telling Wylan that_? It was too much! “And he said he loved me, but he gave me a chance to take it back. He said if I just said it because I was drunk—he _implied_ if I said it because I was drunk—I could take it back. I’d had a few drinks. I wasn’t drunk. He was just making an excuse.”  
  
And _Saints_ it stung.  
  
“Kaz took off his gloves to tie a bandage for me,” Inej said, and Jesper did not like the jolt of envy he felt, but he couldn’t deny he felt it. “Nina would’ve done it without a second thought. You would’ve done it without a second thought. I know how hard that was for Kaz. That’s something he was willing to do for me, and because it was him, it mattered.”  
  
Jesper had always wanted more than Kaz gave him and he knew Inej had, too. He was happy for Inej that Kaz had been willing to try, to take that step for her, and tried to quell the still-present envy he felt. Why was he jealous? He had Wylan. He didn’t _want_ Kaz, he didn’t want someone who never wanted him that way. Yes Kaz was brilliant and enigmatic, yes he had eyes that could look shivers of ice straight into a man’s soul—  
  
_Shit._  
  
He still wanted Kaz.  
  
But… _Wylan._ Jesper could watch Kaz all he wanted and feel like Kaz took something just by looking back at him, but when Wylan looked at Jesper, there was always gentleness there, a question, an invitation. When Wylan looked at Jesper, it felt like something given. All those times Kaz only had a snarl or a sharp word no matter what Jesper did, and it was Wylan who approved, who actually _liked_ Jesper.  
  
Why had he ever fallen in love for Kaz Brekker? And why couldn’t he climb out of it?  
  
It wasn’t the sort of love that wanted kissing and cuddling. It was Kaz’s esteem he wanted—something Jesper yearned for but no longer hoped for.  
  
“It’s hard to love people after you’ve been hurt.”  
  
Jesper refocused his thoughts on the present: “You mean that tutor he was with?”  
  
Inej raised her eyebrows, and Jesper knew he had entirely missed the point. He still wasn’t sure what the point was, but he had missed it.  
  
“I’ve seen you two together. He’s crazy about you. Jesper… maybe Wylan doesn’t think he’s worth loving.”  
  
“But that’s ridiculous! He’s so thoughtful and smart… talented… beautiful… he tries so hard and he always looks for the good—what? Why are you looking at me like that?”  
  
“Because you’re my friend and you’re in love.”  
  
Jesper was proud of the one and conflicted on the other, but kept that to himself.  
  
“You show your friends they matter to you in big ways. Wylan’s more reserved. He’ll show you in different ways. Learn to look for them, I promise you’ll be happier if you do.”  
  
Jesper thought about that. He thought about Wylan snuggled against him at night, stealing glances at him over dinner, asking how he was and pushing him to use his stupid zowa abilities.  
  
“He gave me a drawing.”  
  
Inej didn’t reply, but her expression said she heard and was interested.  
  
“It was in my pocket this morning—but that doesn’t mean…”  
  
“It means something.”  
  
“Or it’s just a gift.”  
  
“Maybe,” Inej agreed. “Maybe one of the wealthiest men in Ketterdam, who could buy you whatever you asked for, decided to make you something personal instead. What was it of? The drawing?”  
  
“Not your business!”  
  
It was his revolvers. Jesper wasn’t sure how a person made something like that happen with nothing but a pencil.  
  
“All right. Just a drawing, then. There’s that tapping thing he does.”  
  
“Tapping thing?”  
  
“Like this.” Inej demonstrated, tapping three times on Jesper’s arm.  
  
Jesper hadn’t noticed before, but now that she mentioned it, Wylan had done that a few times in the past days.  
  
He shrugged. “He probably does that to everyone.”  
  
Inej responded with a look.   
  
“Oh.” Jesper sighed. Maybe there were things he hadn’t noticed. “Do you think I’m good enough for him?”  
  
Inej replied, “I think he’s good enough for you. Being in love doesn’t mean you’re indulging the wound.”  
  
“I thought about _marrying_ him. Normal people don’t have those thoughts.”  
  
She laughed, not unkindly. “Oh, Jes…”  
  
He turned to her, surprised by the implication. “Have you ever thought about that?”  
  
“I used to,” she said, “before the Menagerie. I thought about which routes we would travel. Actually… I planned a lot about which routes we would travel, so I could see new places but we would still cross paths with Mama and Papa several times a year. We were going to start our own caravan. I thought about having children, I was going to have three daughters and my feet weren’t going to swell at all. Any time I had feelings for a boy, I would ask myself if he fit that picture. Would I want to spend my life beside him on the road? Could I imagine him making the skillet bread when I was pregnant and needed to lie down in the afternoon?”  
  
Jesper had never known Inej wanted any of that. He didn’t know she thought about having kids, and even though it made perfect sense, he had never imagined Inej in a Suli caravan. He knew that was where she grew up, but she didn’t offer up much about it, before. He could picture Inej that way, young, dreaming. It was the sort of life she deserved—family, open road, an easy heart.  
  
Her gaze had gone out to the ocean while she talked. It wasn’t what she wanted anymore. Still, he thought, she wanted to travel. In a different way and to a different end, but she wanted to travel, to keep moving.  
  
Smooth sea and a (hopefully) easy heart.  
  
“Is he what you want?” Jesper asked.  
  
Kaz Brekker would not travel with a Suli caravan. He would not make skillet bread. Jesper couldn't begin to picture Kaz as a father.  
  
Inej sighed. “Yes,” she said. “No. I’m not that girl anymore. I’ve learned to dream new dreams.”  
  
“He’s one of them, though?”  
  
“He is,” she acknowledged, “but not the only one.”  
  
Jesper nodded. “Good. You deserve more.”  
  
“Mm,” Inej murmured, non-committal. A moment later, she added, “I hope you’re not comparing me and Kaz to you and Wylan.”  
  
“Of course I wasn’t,” he said.  
  
Not convincing.  
  
“It’s not the same. You and Kaz have known each other for years.”  
  
“The heart is an arrow. It demands aim to land true.”  
  
As difficult as he sometimes found understanding her Suli proverbs, this one made perfect sense. Jesper understood the concepts, understood that such aim required knowledge and skill, but more than anything, it required will.  
  
Nodding, he said, “And not everyone can aim.” Catching movement on the canal, Jesper stood for a better look. “They’re here!” he told Inej, grinning.  
  
She stood beside him. “Is that…?”  
  
“That’s her,” Jesper confirmed. “Marya Van Eck.”  
  
Inej smiled, but there was something else in it when she turned to Jesper, something mysterious and knowing.  
  
“What?” he asked.  
  
She shook her head.  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Fine. At least show me the quickest way off the roof.”  
  
Inej smiled that mysterious smile again, but she showed Jesper how to get quickly from the roof to the ground. Her way was a good deal more fun—a good deal riskier for someone like Jesper, who was a great climber but no acrobat. But it was the risk that made it fun!  
  
When they hit the ground, Jesper brushed off his hands and clothes. Inej of course only had a few hairs out of place. Even if he hadn’t been a naturally outgoing and sociable person, Jesper would have preferred putting his attention on others. He could watch them—Inej, Wylan, Kaz—he could watch them for ages. If he focused on most objects his vision started to shift and layer, his powers insisting he look not at them but into them. But he was no Corporalnik, he was a Fabrikator.   
  
Objects might frustrate him.   
  
People were different.  
  
It was good, since he had come to realize since his da’s visit that people were everything.


	19. Marya's Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did my best with the Dutch noun used in this chapter, but I haven’t studied Dutch and there is a not insignificant chance I messed up. That said... it's just cookies.

“It’s okay, Mama. Father’s not here. He won’t come back. You’re safe; you’re going to stay home for as long as you want. It’s okay.”  
  
Wylan kept up a low, steady stream of reassurances as they stepped from the boat. Marya gripped his hand, her fingers painfully tight around his. He did nothing to discourage her. Wylan knew this was a frightening place to return to.  
  
She took small, tentative steps.  
  
Wylan hadn’t considered how long she spent there, how unfamiliar the rest of the world was. The trip home had been challenging. She would inch away from him to look at something, then return to clutch his hand. Wylan had kept an arm around her shoulders when he could.  
  
He walked her toward the mansion. He hadn’t really thought through the details of this plan and more kept cropping up. Hadn’t thought what her mind would be like after so long in that place. Hadn’t thought what bringing her home really meant. Hadn’t thought, hadn’t thought, hadn’t thought…  
  
He clenched his jaw briefly. He hadn’t. But he would learn.  
  
“Are you okay?”  
  
“Yes,” she replied, her voice shaky.  
  
“You must not have been on a boat in a long time.”  
  
She nodded. “The last… boat… that boat…”  
  
“It’s okay, Mama, it’s okay. You’re here now.”  
  
Mentally, Wylan pinched himself for being stupid enough to ask her about that boat. She had been scared getting on the boat to come home. Of course she had—the last time she boarded a boat, it took her to an asylum.  
  
“Wylan?”  
  
“Sunshine!”  
  
He looked up, unsurprised to see Jesper and Inej approaching. They were both smiling. As stressful as the morning had been, he grinned back at them. His friends were here. Suddenly everything seemed… okay.  
  
“You’re here,” Wylan said. “This is my mother, Marya Van Eck. Mama, you know Jesper, and this is our friend Inej Ghafa.”  
  
“Oh… hello,” Marya said, giving them a vague look. “You’re friends with my son?”  
  
“Yes, ma’am,” Inej replied, pleasant and polite. “Welcome home, Mrs. Van Eck.”  
  
“It’s nice to see you again,” Jesper added.  
  
Marya looked from Inej to Jesper, then focused on a nearby tree.  
  
“There used to be magpies.”  
  
“They’re still there,” Wylan said. “You’ll see them tomorrow morning if you’re up early enough.”  
  
“Time won’t be the same here.”  
  
“It, uh… it… where should we go?” Wylan asked his mother. “Do you want to settle into your bedroom or play the piano again? Or I could play something for you? Or…”  
  
“I think I’ll settle in.”  
  
He gave his friends a look that might have been hopeful, or apologetic. He truly didn’t know. With a twinge of shame, he realized he was embarrassed by his mother’s absent-mindedness. It wasn’t anything she could help! He knew that! He knew that Inej and Jesper understood… but as he showed her upstairs, they began to get some shocked looks from servants.  
  
“Here we are—”  
  
Marya suddenly went still.  
  
“Mama? This is your bedroom, remember?”  
  
She shook her head. “No, not here. Not mine, it’s not mine, it’s not mine…”  
  
Wylan recognized the growing franticness in her tone. If he didn’t help, this would escalate fast.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
He stepped in front of her.  
  
“Mama, look at me. Mama. You’re home now with your son, remember? With Wylan. We’ll find you a nice space for your own. It doesn’t need to be this room.”  
  
It had been a long day already for both of them, and once a room had been made up for Marya, she told Wylan she would like to lie down for a while. He told her that was a good idea.  
  
All he could think about was finding Jesper, snuggling against him… Wylan didn’t want to lean on Jesper constantly, but the thought of him certainly improved… everything. What was better than waking up well-rested in a soft bed? Waking up well-rested in a soft bed _next to Jesper_. What was better than an evening at the pianoforte? An evening at the pianoforte _with Jesper singing_. What was better than Jesper? Two Jespers, but that was too delightful for this imperfect world.  
  
They didn’t have a set time for lunch, but Wylan was late anyway. The weather was nice, if a bit brisk, and he joined Jesper and Inej at the wrought iron table outside. He helped himself to a roll and a piece of smoked herring from the plate in the middle of the table.  
  
“Reaching across the table is rude,” Jesper informed him.  
  
“So is talking with your mouth full,” Wylan retorted.  
  
Jesper shrugged and said something about not being a merch, but his mouth was too full for Wylan to make out all the words.  
  
“How are you, Wylan?” Inej asked.  
  
“I think she’ll be okay,” Wylan said, hesitant hope in his voice. “She hasn’t been out of Saint Hilde in years, it’s a lot for her, but she recognizes the house. Maybe I should have told the staff she was coming home. They would have laughed at me, but at least they would have had some warning. I hope this won’t make things harder for her.”  
  
He didn’t notice the others staring at him until his mouth was full. Despite his earlier actions in obtaining his lunch, Wylan truly did try to show good manners. He didn’t ask why they were giving him those looks.  
  
After a moment, Inej said, “That’s a nice sweater.”  
  
“It’s Alys’s,” Jesper said.  
  
Wylan made a noise of objection, but his mouth was still full. He chewed furiously. He needed to join in this conversation before it got worse.  
  
It was Alys’s sweater, from before she was pregnant. She had slim shoulders and wore one of those… what were they called? Wylan could never remember, those undergarments ladies used to trim their waistlines. The sweater was too small for her now, but just the right size for a boy who had spent six months slowly starving in the Barrel.  
  
“Well, it suits you, Wylan,” Inej said.  
  
“He looks better without it.”  
  
Wylan replied with a blush and a surprisingly loud, pained whimper. He gulped his water to get his food down faster.  
  
Inej giggled.  
  
Well… _darn it!_ Now Wylan knew without a doubt he would continue taking the largest bites possible. Jesper would tease him. Inej would laugh. They were both so happy, and he wanted to do all he could to help them stay that way.  
  
Unfortunately, no sooner had Wylan thought it than they were interrupted.  
  
“Excuse me, Mister Wylan, but you have a visitor.”  
  
Wylan was briefly confused.  
  
Then he felt dread sinking heavily through him.  
  
_No…_  
  
“Radmakker,” Jesper said.  
  
Of course. They had invited him in three days’ time—it was three days’ time.  
  
Wylan swallowed.  
  
“Okay,” Wylan said. “Okay—I’ll be along in a moment. If I ask for tea, I want it brought to the music room.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
He kept himself put together until he, Jesper, and Inej were once more alone. Then Wylan dropped his head into his hands.  
  
He wasn’t ready for this! He and Jesper hadn’t spent much time working on understanding the empire. They meant to, but… but things kept coming up. He didn’t even have a jacket and hat in his size! No—he was at home—it was okay not to have a hat at home. He could scrounge up a tie but he was scarcely going to stick links in his shirt cuffs under a sweater.  
  
No, no, no, he could do this!  
  
He just needed a minute.  
  
He needed to wash his face and hands, he needed to comb his hair, he needed to vomit repeatedly… and then he needed to gargle and clean his teeth so his breath didn’t smell like vomit…  
  
“Breathe,” Jesper said, putting his hand on Wylan’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Wy.”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “I’m not ready.”  
  
“Yes, you are. You can do this.”  
  
“What if he wants me to…”  
  
“He won’t.”  
  
_Do one thing at a time._  
  
Wylan took a shallow breath. He tried again and took a deep one. It made the world spin more slowly. Made him feel a little steadier.  
  
“It’s okay,” Wylan said. “Jes, you’ll be there, won’t you?”  
  
Jesper grinned. “Working in my official capacity as Mister Van Eck’s secretary.”  
  
Wylan kissed him—only gently and only on the cheek, because they did not have time for distractions.  
  
“I’ll pay you later,” he whispered, but knowing he had said it and Jesper had heard it was enough to light his face up bright red.  
  
Jesper gave him a solemn, unamused look.  
  
“We have an important guest, this is not the time for your shenanigans, Mister Van Eck.”  
  
Wylan laughed himself nearly to tears.  
  
When he had caught his breath and dried his face, he shook his head and said, “Jesper Llewellyn Fahey, you are wonderful.”  
  
He truly didn’t mention that enough, Wylan thought, and resolved to put more consideration into that matter. He didn’t know how to be like Jesper, to brighten a room just by walking into it or say something sharp and quick to make someone smile. Of course, Jesper would say it wasn’t about trade, that was just a Kerch way of looking at things, but Wylan wanted to find ways to make Jesper as happy as Jesper made him.  
  
“Who said you could call me that!” Jesper demanded, laughing.  
  
Wylan squeezed his hand and made no apology for using that other ‘l’ word.  
  
“Ready?” Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan nodded. He knew he was out of his depth with Radmakker, but the anxious knot in his chest had eased.  
  
“Inej?”  
  
“I’ll sit this one out,” she said.  
  
“Your loss,” Jesper told her drily, “merchers are fascinating.”  
  
“You don’t mind yours,” Inej retorted.  
  
“Mine is a merch _ling_.”  
  
“Mm, I seem to recall someone saying I was a proper mercher,” Wylan reminded Jesper.  
  
“Clearly that person was a liar.”  
  
“He also called me beautiful.”  
  
Jesper paused a moment. He shrugged. “You must be a proper mercher after all, then.”  
  
_One thing at a time._  
  
Wylan dipped his napkin in his water glass and wiped his hands clean, then combed his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t perfect. _He_ wasn’t perfect. But Radmakker was here now, so this would have to suffice.  
  
“I’m ready,” he said. “No mourners.”  
  
“No funerals,” Jesper and Inej replied.  
  
“Now,” Jesper continued, “let’s go show Radmakker how they make ‘em in the Barrel.”  
  
“Jellen Radmakker believes I was studying music in Belendt…”  
  
Which, Wylan realized, meant at some point he would need a story to explain how he met Jesper. _You see, I went with a group of school friends to the Barrel because young people often visit gambling dens and pleasure houses—um, no, that’s not where I met Jesper, not in a gambling den or a pleasure house, outside! He and I both took the time to pray for Ghezen to guide these debauchers into seeing the error of their ways!_  
   
He would figure that out later. Wylan knew Jesper would have a very different experience of Ketterdam being with Wylan as a merchant than their days in the Barrel, or on Black Veil when they started to become more than co-conspirators, or even in the Geldrenner. Here there were social expectations. Jesper being a man, being Zemeni, being a farmer’s son… those things would raise eyebrows. There were two things Wylan could do about that. The first he would: be beside Jesper, be his boyfriend, love him, never let a single person doubt that.  
  
The second… Wylan had come into this with a vague sense of what it meant to run an empire and a mild resolve to do his best, but really, was it a huge issue if… he had more than enough money to live a comfortable life. He didn’t care about leaving a legacy.  
  
But a wealthy enough man could do whatever he pleased in Kerch. Suddenly, Wylan resolved to make good. He would make so much money no one would think twice when they saw Jesper’s hand in his.  
  
_They wouldn’t fucking dare._  
  
Wylan swallowed that resolve for now. He needed to be pleasant, polite, ideally not too happy to have his father gone.  
  
“Mister Radmakker, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting,” Wylan said, joining Radmakker where he had waited in the music room. He hadn’t known himself where to ask that his guest wait with the sitting room off limits and the office gaping, but the music room got quite a lot of use lately. It was reasonable.  
  
Jellen Radmakker rose and accepted Wylan’s outstretched hand.  
  
“Not at all,” Radmakker said.  
  
“This is Jesper Fahey,” Wylan offered an introduction, but he didn’t explain what Jesper was doing here.  
  
He didn’t need to.  
  
“Mister Van Eck’s secretary,” Jesper said, also offering a handshake. To Radmakker’s credit, though he was clearly dubious about the boy with the scuffed lime green waistcoat and pearl-handled revolvers, he accepted the handshake without question.  
  
“A pleasure to meet you, Mister Fahey. How are you holding up, Wylan?”  
  
Wylan felt the disapproving look Jesper shot him and he understood, but what else was Radmakker going to call him? The man had known Wylan since he was old enough to attend a social function, and seen him at church since he was nothing but a tuft of hair and a bundle of blankets. Of course he called a former peer’s son by his first name—it was a courtesy he hadn’t put ‘young’ in front of it.  
  
“Well enough, under the circumstances,” Wylan said, trying to sound mildly grim. “I can scarcely believe my father would have been involved with… well, he’s always been such a devout man.”  
  
He had.  
  
Jan Van Eck had attended church services regularly. He tithed honestly—at least Wylan thought he did—and, above all else, he worked tirelessly. An industrious man, his father. Not that Ghezen showed his hand only in prayer and business. Wylan had been told plenty of times that he was a curse from Ghezen, an affront to Ghezen, a trial from Ghezen. And, when he was very small, a gift from Ghezen, but that was when he showed a gift for numbers before he ought to learn to read.  
  
“Perhaps he was misled,” Radmakker ventured. “He was distraught over your kidnapping, that must have been what led him to work with Pekka Rollins. Rollins may well have been responsible.”  
  
Wylan tried to look thoughtful at the prospect. What he actually felt was terrified. What if Jan used that as a legal strategy? What if he tried to deflect the blame to Pekka, claimed a distraught frame of mind, or that he had been blackmailed? It was plausible enough with the right lawyer. Not that Wylan would provide adequate funds for any lawyer that good, but others on the Council might, if they were persuaded. How could Wylan dispute this? How could he put it to rest without showing his hand?  
  
“I shouldn’t think so,” Wylan replied, hoping he sounded mildly insulted. “A Van Eck, led by a criminal like Rollins?”  
  
He hated lying.  
  
He hated lying.  
  
But, he told himself, Rollins _was_ filth. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t from his being in the Barrel. It was who Pekka was.  
  
“I suppose,” Radmakker ceded.  
  
“Besides, the partnership began earlier. Father had Rollins—do what he did. Tell me, Mister Radmakker,” Wylan said, “what business? If it’s a social visit I’ll have tea brought.”  
  
“Tea would be lovely. It is a social call. I was concerned for your welfare after your ordeal.”  
  
Concerned? Or sounding him out as a businessman? Wylan pondered as he asked for that tea.  
  
Radmakker had always been kind to Wylan. He had given him sweets as a child, and as Wylan grew older, Radmakker remembered that he was a flautist and asked about his music. But… had it been kindness? Or the building of a seemingly inevitable business relationship?  
  
In the end, did it matter? Wylan could never have a truly honest relationship with nearly anyone. He glanced at Jesper, unable to keep from giving him a small smile. Jesper was here. Observing. Keeping Wylan from losing his mind. There was nothing to shoot and precious little to do, nothing requiring a secretary, but still he was here.  
  
Radmakker noticed.  
  
“You’ll be joining us, Mister Fahey?”  
  
Jesper opened his mouth to answer, but Wylan was faster: “He will indeed.”  
  
He didn’t state the reason, but he gently placed his hand in Jesper’s and took a step towards the little table with its collection of seats drawn up. It had served as the dinner table the past few nights, when they weren’t gathering on the floor instead. Perfect place for tea.  
  
The move had been forward. Wylan glanced at Jesper’s face—hopefully he hadn’t minded. If anything, Jesper looked thrilled.  
  
Radmakker looked briefly confused, then surprised, before recovering his usual neutral merch demeanor with an, “I see.” Then he took a seat opposite the two of them.  
  
“How did you find the school at Belendt?” Radmakker asked.  
  
“I’m afraid I wasn’t there long. And I haven’t been able to play in…”  
  
“I’m sorry. I know you’re very fond of your flute.”  
  
“I… thank you,” Wylan said, forgetting to be suspicious with how genuine Radmakker sounded. It was just—it was nice to have that acknowledged. He loved his music. He loved his flute. While he didn’t expect most people to share his passion, it was strangely soothing to have that passion acknowledged.  
  
He was saved having to change the subject by the arrival of the tea.  
  
“Thank you, Jette.”  
  
She poured the tea for the three of them, then once more left them alone. Wylan took the opportunity of Radmakker’s distraction to meet Jesper’s eyes and give him a quick smile. This had to be boring him. Perhaps they could do something exciting later, thought Wylan, with a heavy dose of sarcasm at the prospect of himself finding something exciting to do.  
  
He nibbled the edge of a _krakeling_ cookie as he looked for the next thing to say.  
  
“Will you be returning to school?”  
  
“It’s not my plan for the immediate future,” Wylan said. “There’s so much to take care of with the company, setting things in order, so much to learn, and that—that business with the Shu—I need to be here.”  
  
It was strange to think about how excited Wylan had once felt on the way to Belendt, how hopeful. He believed a new life awaited him. He believed there was a fresh start. In a way, he wasn’t wrong—but the idea now of going to the music school seemed so foolish. It was the foolish dream of a different Wylan Van Eck.  
  
“Your father cared for you a great deal.”  
  
Wylan must not have been able to hide his surprise. He knew he needed to pretend his father loved him. He knew he needed to pretend he loved his father. But why was Radmakker bringing it up now?  
  
“It’s a huge responsibility. He wanted you to have time to be a musician before you inherited that responsibility. The company. Your family name, the Van Ecks’ standing in Ketterdam. I don’t mean to overwhelm you with it. On the contrary, I want you to understand the enormity of what you’ve inherited. I want…” Radmakker glanced from Wylan to Jesper, back to Wylan, then he said, “Wylan, if I can be of assistance to you in learning to manage the business, please don’t hesitate to ask.”  
  
Oh. That was… not the conclusion Wylan expected.  
  
He wished he could take it at face value. He wanted to believe that Radmakker really was just offering his help—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t take it at face value. Radmakker could too easily have an ulterior motive. Jan had fleeced the rest of the Council. Endearing himself to Wylan, earning Wylan’s trust, might be the first step in swindling him in return to even the score.  
  
Yet Wylan couldn’t keep the man at too much of a distance, either, not only because he wanted too badly to accept the offer. He needed a good relationship with… with his peers.  
  
“Thank you, Mister Radmakker,” Wylan said. “I—”  
  
“ _You_.”  
  
All three of them turned to the doorway.  
  
“Marya,” Radmakker gasped.  
  
Wylan was already halfway out of his seat.  
  
“You!”  
  
“Mama, it’s okay!”  
  
She looked so afraid.  
  
Her eyes locked on Wylan, wide, wild.  
  
Desperately, urgently, she told him, “You mustn’t trust him, this man is a friend of—he may be working with Jan, he—”  
  
“No, Mama,” Wylan said.  
  
“Mrs. Van Eck,” Radmakker said.  
  
He knew her, from before. He knew her, but not like this, not so drastically aged in under a decade, nor would he have ever seen her in a nightgown, let alone in the middle of the day, and barefoot, her hair cropped short and uncombed. This wasn’t how a merchant’s wife presented herself.  
  
She looked, Wylan thought with a stab, mad.  
  
“You can’t be here!”  
  
“It’s okay,” Wylan said.  
  
“He can’t! Get out!”  
  
“Mama, please, it’s okay—”  
  
Wylan stepped closer, worried by her dramatic gesturing. He should have known better. He should have known it would remind her of the asylum, it would scare her more.  
  
Marya shrieked and went to push him away, and Wylan—flinched.  
  
He hadn’t been ready. With someone else—Kaz, with Kaz he would have been ready. Because it was her, because they were in this place…  
  
Marya’s eyes welled with tears. She turned away.  
  
“Mama.”  
  
She shook her head. Then she just shook.  
  
“Oh, my boy, my Wylan…”  
  
“Mama, it’s okay, I’m here. It’s okay.”  
  
“No, no, no…”  
  
“Mama…”  
  
He stepped forward again, faster, wrapping his arms around her to stop her doing either of them any more harm. He couldn’t make out the words she was shouting. He tried to close his ears to it. Wylan could remember an awful lot…  
  
“It’s okay,” he told her, trying to soothe her, trying to promise, trying to forget that Radmakker was seeing this and Jesper was seeing this too. “It’s okay, shh, you’re home now. You’re safe. It’s okay, Mama, it’s okay.”  
  
When Marya had shouted and wept herself to exhaustion, Wylan helped her toward the stairs. Bed. They would get her to bed, and she would sleep, and this would all look better in the morning.  
  
That was when he spotted the child standing there. Gavrie was shivering. From his illness? Or from fear? Either way the boy was shaking, watching Wylan with wide eyes.  
  
“I’ll be right back, Gavrie. Wait for me, yes?”  
  
Gavrie nodded.  
  
Wylan helped his mother up the stairs. He helped her back to bed and rubbed circles on her back while she cried. He whispered soothing words that probably didn’t help. Honestly, how could he comfort her when he felt scraped raw inside himself? Wylan blamed no one for this situation, but he couldn’t imagine how he was to recover from it.  
  
Once Marya was calmer and reassured that Wylan wouldn’t trust Radmakker too far and wouldn’t let anyone take her away, he kissed her cheek and left her alone with her thoughts. He hated to leave her, but had already abandoned Jesper with Radmakker and left a frightened Gavrie far too long.  
  
The child first—but he wasn’t there. Wylan peered down the next hallway, but he couldn’t go looking.  
  
Instead he returned to the music room.  
  
Radmakker looked shaken despite Jesper’s best efforts to keep a cheery conversation going.  
  
“Wylan,” Radmakker said, “I… see you need your privacy. If you would be so kind as to accompany me to the canal?”  
  
Wylan understood what Radmakker meant: Wylan alone. He glanced at Jesper. Right now, Wylan just wanted a nap. He wished he could curl up and cry himself to sleep, but that was a luxury he did not have. Instead he stood and tried not to let on how badly the knot inside him ached. It was like all the fears and stresses and unshed tears had wound together, tired of being ignored.  
  
“Of course, Mister Radmakker.”  
  
Whatever Radmakker thought, Wylan saw that Jesper understood. And didn’t care.  
  
As they walked, Radmakker said, rather unsteadily, “It would seem I had very little understanding of my friend Jan and what went on in his house. My offer stands, if you need anything… if you need assistance with the business… but I must say a word about the company you’re keeping.”  
  
_Don’t,_ Wylan thought, but he said, “If you feel you must, Mister Radmakker.”  
  
“I do. Several times a young Suli woman has been spotted in your company.”  
  
“That’s my friend Inej.”  
  
“She is a known associate of Kaz Brekker. You may not know how dangerous she is—they both are.”  
  
“Inej is my friend,” Wylan stressed. “I trust her with my life.”  
  
“Wylan, it’s not only her. Your young man…”  
  
“Jesper was with a gang, too. I know. I appreciate your concern, Mister Radmakker, but what better way to show such people Ghezen’s wisdom than to embrace them?”  
  
It was a ridiculous lie. It was ridiculous enough to keep Radmakker off his back.  
  
“Do look after yourself,” Radmakker said, by way of farewell. Then, to Wylan’s surprise, Radmakker reached out and placed a hand on Wylan’s shoulder. “This will be a challenging time for all of us and you’re very young, but it will be all right. You’re not alone.”  
  
“Thank you.” He truly meant it.  
  
Wylan waited a few moments. He wanted to be certain Radmakker was out of earshot before he asked, “You heard that, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Broad daylight and still Inej materialized as if from thin air.  
  
Wylan gave her a crooked grin. It hurt, grinning like that, but he needed it, too. “You’re very disreputable, Miss Ghafa.”  
  
Inej laughed. “Am I, Mister Van Eck?”  
  
“Don’t call me that!” he protested, laughing. It was less weird when she said it, but still strange to hear. “Do you want to come with me? I need to give a 7-year-old some cookies and Jesper a massive amount of gratitude.”  
  
“I’ll come if I can have cookies, too.”  
  
“Always,” Wylan said, offering his arm. Inej looped her arm through his.  
  
“I would have come with you anyway.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
Until they all came to stay on Geldstraat, Wylan hadn’t thought about how little he saw Inej smile. Why would he? He hadn’t seen her as a person, not really. He saw her more the way a small child sees an adult despite the fact they were nearly the same age. Inej was enigmatic, graceful, efficient… it made perfect sense to him that she was a Sankta-to-be. Inej had been kind, too. She had hugged Wylan. Twice. But it never felt like being hugged by a friend so much as granted a benediction.  
  
Here the mask slipped. She wasn’t the Wraith, she was Inej. They had played together. They had seen each other vulnerable. Despite the jobs they worked together, this was the first time Wylan felt like he and Inej had been on equal footing.  
  
When Inej had grinned and taken his arm, Wylan felt inexplicably but undeniably better. The knot in his belly eased. Things were okay.  
  
They found Gavrie in the kitchen with his aunt.  
  
“He didn’t mean any harm,” Miss Molenaar said. “I’ve already spoken with him. He knows there’ll be a consequence for wandering around.”  
  
“Please don’t,” Wylan said. He knew he should have been more tactful, more measured. But he was weary, and he didn’t want people to be afraid of him. There had been enough fear in this house. “I’m not my father, Miss Molenaar. I’m not going to threaten your job. I just want to make sure he’s not scared. My mother was… agitated.”  
  
Miss Molenaar glanced behind her, where Gavrie was curled up in the corner.  
  
Wylan understood. He had been through more than enough today.  
  
Rather than press the matter, he said, “That blanket’s probably still in the sitting room. He looks cold.”  
  
Then he and Inej headed for the music room. Jesper had shifted to the floor and had a cup of tea and several _krakelingen_.  
  
“How did it go, Jesper?” Inej asked.  
  
Wylan followed up with, “How’s the world’s best boyfriend?”  
  
“I don’t know, how are you?”  
  
“Lucky. I’ve got you.”  
  
Inej threw a pillow at them. It hit Wylan in the chest. He caught it before it could rebound and tossed it back to Inej.  
  
“It could have been worse,” Jesper offered optimistically.  
  
Wylan sighed and slumped onto the floor beside Jesper. “How?”  
  
“No one died. Nothing was lit on fire. The cookies are excellent, you should have one. Did Radmakker warn you about what a bad man I am?”  
  
“He did,” Wylan admitted, taking a cookie and biting into it.  
  
“Don’t hold out.”  
  
Wylan gave Jesper a tired smiled. This had been a tough morning, but being here with Jesper made everything better. It was what he wanted to hear even if the idea of Jesper being a danger to him was ridiculous, so Wylan said, “You’re a very scary and dangerous gang member.”  
  
“But Wylan’s going to show you Ghezen’s wisdom,” Inej added as she poured herself a cup of tea.  
  
“Yeah?” Jesper asked.  
  
“Mmf,” Wylan replied, his mouth full. He swallowed, chased the cookie with a gulp of tea, and said, “I’m going to show you Ghezen’s wisdom by embracing you, apparently.”  
  
“ _Are you_?”  
  
“I mean—that’s what I said, but—”  
  
“Well, don’t make yourself a liar, gorgeous.”  
  
“Um—the problem is I won’t want to let go.”  
  
“You have an interesting and, by the way, wrong, definition of a problem.”  
  
Wylan wrapped an arm around Jesper. It was true what he said. He didn't want to let go.  
  
“Of course,” he added, “nothing I do could possibly bring you closer to Ghezen.”  
  
“Are you calling me a heathen?”  
  
“I’m calling me a heathen.”  
  
Jesper put an arm around Wylan’s shoulders. “I’m sorry about Marya.”  
  
Wylan shrugged. When Jesper began to move his arm away, though, Wylan reached up and slid his free hand over Jesper’s. _No. Please._  
  
“I didn’t know what to say. That’s all. She’s here. I can take care of her, and she’ll get better. Thank you for all your help with Radmakker.”  
  
“I want to be a part of things, Wy.”  
  
“Even the boring things?”  
  
“If there are good snacks.”  
  
Wylan laughed weakly. It had been easier to laugh when he was outside and warm in the sunshine. Indoors, everything felt… dim. He didn’t know what to say, so he reached for another cookie.  
  
He didn’t know what possessed him to say what he did next. The words just popped out of Wylan’s mouth: “Do you want to play the question game?”  
  
Immediately he turned a scalding shade of pink. Of course they didn’t want to play the question game! That was so dumb and childish and _idle_ …  
  
“How do you play?” Inej asked.  
  
“You have to ask a question,” Wylan explained, looking determinedly at his cookie. They were going to laugh at him for this…  
  
They did, but not how he expected.  
  
“Statement,” Inej replied, “one point against Wylan. Are you playing, Jesper?”  
  
Jesper grinned. “Do you think I’m playing?”  
  
“Should we think you’re playing?” Wylan asked. He was onto them now!  
  
“Why wouldn’t Jesper play?”  
  
“Do you think he doesn’t want me to play?”  
  
“Why wouldn’t I want you to play?”  
  
“Are you concerned he’ll be better than you?”  
  
“Are you concerned I’ll _distract_ you?”  
  
How could Jesper do that? How did he take an ordinary word, dress it up in smooth silk and tie a bow around it so average things became special and secret?  
  
Wylan was too busy blushing and snickering to reply.  
  
“Hesitation, two points against Wylan,” Inej said.  
  
“You might have given him a moment!”  
  
Inej grinned wickedly. “Statement, one point against Jesper.”  
  
Jesper and Wylan only grew sillier as the game progressed, until Inej gave up and declared there was no sport in defeating them. Jesper graciously accepted her surrender and declared himself the victor. Wylan hugged his arms across his belly, snorting laughter. His earlier anxiety was gone, leaving only a bruise in its place.  
  
Jesper pulled Wylan half into his lap.  
  
“I claim this merchling as my prize,” he said.  
  
Wylan was laughing too hard to reply, but he reached up to tap-tap-tap Jesper’s hand. Jesper held him tight and pressed kisses to his neck.  
  
Once Wylan had caught his breath, Inej said, “I think you forget, Jesper, that I’m the rightful winner.”  
  
“You can’t have him,” Jesper replied.  
  
“I don’t want him.”  
  
“Hey!” Wylan objected. But, in the name of fairness: “You both deserve a prize. How about the rest of the cookies, Inej?”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
“Mine’s better.”  
  
“Don’t be a sore winner, Jes. Though—you’re right.”  
  
Wylan could almost hear him grinning.  
  
“Hey… do you… do you like our bedroom?”  
  
“ _Our_ bedroom, huh?” Jesper asked. “Sure. It’s nice.”  
  
“What if we were to use a different one?”  
  
“I’m all ears, gorgeous. As long as you don’t mean the nursery.”  
  
Wylan glanced at Inej, who was watching him curiously, then up at Jesper who still had Wylan in a delightfully possessive hug.  
  
“I have to ask your help again—but no, it’s not about the nursery.”


	20. Great Leaps and Baby Steps

“Are you sure about this?” Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan took a breath that he wanted to be deep but it was shallow instead.  
  
“We don’t have to.”  
  
“We do,” he said. “This has to be done.”  
  
“We can wait. You don’t need to do anything you’re not ready for.”  
  
“I’m ready.”  
  
“You don’t sound sure, gorgeous.”  
  
“I-I’m ready,” Wylan repeated. Another breath. “I can do this—we can do this.”  
  
“Don’t push yourself. If anything hurts too much, we’ll stop, just say the word. Okay?”  
  
Wylan’s nod was only mildly tense as he replied, “Okay. Absolutely.”  
  
He nodded again, then turned to Jesper and Inej.  
  
“I appreciate you both being here,” Wylan said. “You don’t have to help me.”  
  
“You’re our friend,” Inej said, like that explained everything. In a way—it did.  
  
Wylan turned. Took a step closer to the door. Then he turned again to look at his friends.  
  
“It’s just that you don’t have to…”  
  
“Stop being a chicken,” Jesper said.  
  
“I am _not_ a chicken!”  
  
“Then open the door.”  
  
“I will. I’m going to!”  
  
“Do it, then, you chicken!”  
  
“Don’t call me a chicken!”  
  
“You are being a bit of a chicken,” Inej said.  
  
“I’m not!”  
  
Jesper shrugged. “You could prove it.”  
  
“Fine!”  
  
Wylan spun around, threw open the door, and took a few steps into the room before his breath caught in his chest. No matter how many times he told himself that this was just a room, he hadn’t quite believed it. This was _his_ bedroom. Untouched. Jan hadn’t been gone two weeks, and the room still smelled faintly of him.   
  
“He’s not here,” Inej said.  
  
“You can tell,” Jesper said, “because I’m next to you instead of punching him.”  
  
“Is that helpful?”  
  
“Actual, it is,” Wylan said. “Non-violent Jesper equals no Father. Simple equation, easily verified.” And focusing on Jesper was definitely easy.  
  
The room was large, dominated by a four-poster bed in dark wood, made up like it was waiting for its tenant to return. The desk in the corner was tidy with just a hint of dust. Of course, Wylan thought, his father wouldn’t have allowed anyone to interfere with the business. Not even servants cleaning up.  
  
Inej went to the windows and pulled back the curtains, pouring light into the bedroom to chase out ghosts.  
  
“Where do you want to start, Wylan?”  
  
“Right…”  
  
He took a deep breath, looking around. It had been a vague plan. Even when he worked up the courage to ask his friends for help, the plan was vague: _I’m going to clean out the master bedroom,_ he had said, trying to sound certain and not like his heart was beating like a scared rabbit’s. _If you could help or just be there…_ He hadn’t known how to finish the request. He hadn’t needed to.  
  
“I guess—let’s start with his clothes. We can make a pile for the ragmen and a pile to sell back to the tailor’s.”  
  
“Will your father have anything for the ragmen?”  
  
“Well. Undergarments.”  
  
It was a good point, most of his father’s clothes were fine fabrics, good wool and silk that would still fetch a good price sold back, and Wylan was half tempted to shove everything into a ragmen pile out of sheer spite. Or cut it all up and scrub the damn floors with them.  
  
He didn’t want to be someone who acted out of spite.  
  
He didn’t want to think about his father’s undergarments, either. Unfortunately some deeply unpleasant things existed. Jan Van Eck, for example. And the concept of parental undergarments.   
  
“You don’t have to help with this,” Wylan told Inej as she helped him carry armloads of suits to the bed. “Being here with me is more than enough.”  
  
“I don’t mind,” she said.  
  
“Do you want to play yes and no?”  
  
His suggestion of question game had gone over so well earlier, Wylan scrounged up the courage to suggest another game.  
  
Inej smiled. “I’ve got one,” she said.  
  
“Is it a living creature?” Wylan asked.  
  
“No.”  
  
“A hat,” Jesper suggested. He had wandered into the bathroom, but leaned halfway back into the bedroom to offer his answer.  
  
Jesper looked mildly amused. _Non-violent Jesper equals no Father._  
  
Wylan knew it was silly, but it was soothing anyway.  
  
“No,” Inej said.  
  
“Wylan’s flute.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“A ladle.”  
  
“Jesper, are you even playing?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Clearly I am,” said Jesper.  
  
Wylan supposed he was, if listing random nouns counted.  
  
“Why is it called the master bedroom if it’s twelve rooms?” Jesper asked.  
  
“It’s not twelve rooms. It’s—it’s debatably three, and technically it’s a master suite.”  
  
“Fancy. And four.”  
  
“A closet is not a room.”  
  
“It is when it’s this big.”   
  
In a vain attempt to redirect the conversation, Wylan asked, “Is it made of metal, Inej?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Jesper said, “Wylan’s flute.”  
  
“You already tried that,” Inej reminded him.  
  
Meanwhile, he had made his way to the fourth door leading off the bedroom, the one that didn’t lead to a hallway, bathroom, or closet.  
  
“What’s this?” Jesper asked, looking over a small room containing a simple bed and a chest. “Is it—would you put a child here? So they’re close if they need you at night but you have privacy in case things get naughty?”  
  
Wylan didn’t want to tell him. It was a sweet interpretation, so centered on family and caring. Couldn’t Jesper hold onto that belief?  
  
“What is it really?” Jesper asked.  
  
“It’s for a lady’s maid.”  
  
“Really? A lady’s maid?”  
  
“Yeah, for the merchant’s wife, someone to… braid her hair and… things.”  
  
His mother had a maid, Wylan remembered. He hadn’t really known her, hadn’t thought to. She was kind to him, but he was her employer’s son, and hadn’t been a horrible child. The only thing he knew she did was braid his mama’s hair. Other than that… he wasn’t certain.  
  
“Huh,” Jesper said. “So if I marry you, I get a maid?”  
  
Blushing, eyes on his work, Wylan pointed out, “Getting a husband wouldn’t be enough?”  
  
“I could have a husband and a maid.”  
  
“What do you even want a maid for…” Once more Wylan focused on the game: “Inej, is it something one wears?”  
  
“Frequently.”  
  
“Some Zemeni men keep their hair in braids,” Jesper said.  
  
“Isn’t your hair too short to braid?”  
  
“We’re not getting married tomorrow, sunshine. I could grow my hair until you propose. Won’t limit us, don’t worry. Depending on the type of braids, it wouldn’t take too long.”  
  
“When we get married, you can have whatever you want.”  
  
“ _When_?”  
  
Wylan said nothing. He was blushing too much for words. Instead he focused again on going through his father’s clothes, checking each garment as he went, taking a small thrill each time he found something overlooked—a five-kruge note, a link left in a cuff. They were small things, but they were imperfections. Father’s mistakes.  
  
_Like you,_ said a voice in his memory.  
  
Wylan gave his head a shake. A pebble of loathing sank into his stomach. He wanted to go over and hug Jesper, but that was childish. He _wanted_ that. What he _needed_ was to stand on his own two feet, at least for a little while.  
  
He hated it. He hated how quickly his memories could take him away, even when he was happy and safe and laughing with his friends. They hadn’t the right. _Jan_ hadn’t the right.  
  
“Wylan?”  
   
“I was just thinking…”  
  
Wylan turned to Jesper. _Non-violent Jesper equals no Father._  
  
“Sorry, Inej. Is it small enough to fit in your hand?”  
  
Jesper snickered. Wylan threw socks at him; Jesper caught the socks and threw them back, but Wylan failed to catch them and had to fish them out from where they rolled under the bed.  
  
Still playing the game, Inej said, “Yes, it is.”  
  
Jesper headed for the desk.  
  
“Locked. Do you have your keys, babe?”  
  
Wylan blushed. He glanced at Inej, then away. That wasn’t an in-public nickname!  
  
“You didn’t mind last night.”  
  
Wylan blushed deeper.  
  
“Keys?”  
  
He handed them over.  
  
The game continued. Eventually Wylan found the answer—a buckle—and took his turn, with Inej guessing the correct answer, an inkwell, as they stripped the bed.   
  
“My turn?” Jesper asked, looking up from a leather-bound book that might have been a diary, had it belonged to a more sentimental man. It was probably notes about the business.  
  
“You don’t get a turn,” Inej told him, “you’re not helping.”  
  
“I’m learning about the business,” Jesper retorted. “It’s important.”  
  
“Not so important you haven’t suggested a few answers,” Wylan pointed out.  
  
“Is that helping?”  
  
Knowing a losing battle when she saw one, Inej said, “You can have a turn, Jesper.”  
  
“Is it my flute?”  
  
A moment.  
  
Then:  
  
“Inej’s turn.”  
  
Inej and Wylan continued their game and their cleaning out, with occasional helpful remark from Jesper.  
  
Clothes were sorted into piles. Most of them were still in good condition, but regardless of how small or trivial, Wylan wanted nothing of his father’s. He didn’t care how supple the leather of his gloves, how tidy his hats, he didn’t care if it was just a bootlace. He did not want his father’s clothing.  
  
Anything made of a precious metal went into a box. Heirlooms Wylan felt no option but to keep. It was surprising how many shiny things—how many rings, tie pins, cuff links—had passed from father to son for generations. He would need to wear them sometimes, maintain the tradition, but he could ease into that. Anything else Wylan kept with a promise to himself that he could always have them melted down and recast. Some things just weren’t practical to throw out.  
  
He was, not so deep down, Kerch.   
  
The room was closing in on impersonal when Inej asked, “Your mother didn’t want this bedroom?”  
  
Wylan shook his head.  
  
“I thought she would,” he admitted. “It seemed like her right—I control the business, but she’s still my mother. Maybe I don’t—no maybe. I don’t know her. I don’t really know her at all.”  
  
“Do we ever really know our parents?” Inej asked.   
  
“Shouldn’t they be the people we know best?”  
  
“No,” Inej said, “we barely know them at all.”  
  
Which, he thought, had certainly been true for him, had been true with his father. Wylan hadn’t known his father. All his life, Jan had been putting ideas in his head—not always bad ones, not at first, but it was like he could snap his fingers and decide what Wylan thought. Business was the highest pursuit. A name is a family’s greatest asset. Wylan Van Eck is a stupid, worthless—  
  
He turned his head sharply. _Non-violent Jesper equals no Father._  
  
Except…  
  
“Jes?” Wylan asked, his voice soft.  
  
Jesper looked…  
  
“I’ll kill him,” Jesper murmured. He still had that diary in his hands, and he was staring at it, a furious look on his face.  
  
“Jesper?” Inej asked.   
  
Jesper looked up from the diary. “Did I miss anything important?”  
  
Inej looked to Wylan. Well, sure, he had started this, but—what? What had he wanted to say? The words were all shriveled up in his throat and he struggled to remember what he meant.  
  
“Um… just—nothing. Um, we should get some bright curtains. For the windows.”  
  
“That sounds good,” Jesper agreed. “Delightful and rebellious. Just like you.”  
  
Wylan blushed.  
  
Growing up, he put so little thought into the fact that black and dark grey were the aesthetic requirements of merchant houses. They simply were. Now he questioned. Now he thought it might be nice to have blue curtains. Why shouldn’t they? It didn’t have to be blue. Blue was nice, but they could be lime green plaid if it made Jesper happy.  
  
Just not black or grey.  
  
“I’ll grab a clean sheet and make the bed so we can…” Wylan trailed off, realizing he was getting some strange looks. “Why are you looking at me that way?”  
  
They were both looking, but it was Jesper who answered: “Since when do _you_ know how to make a bed?”  
  
“Why shouldn’t I know how to make a bed,” he replied, only a touch defensive.   
  
He had learned to make a bed—he had figured it out last night. He was going to learn to fight. Wylan Van Eck might devote the rest of his life to learning business and stewarding an empire, but he would not be useless.   
  
Jesper and Inej just looked at him.  
  
“I taught myself,” Wylan admitted. “It… took a while.” Admitting was easier than fighting the urge to squirm. He muttered something about retrieving a sheet and left the room before any more questions came up.  
  
As he went to retrieve the sheet, he tried not to think about the diary, but he couldn’t stop. _I’ll kill him,_ Jesper had said. What had Jan written? There were so many tiny embarrassments Wylan could just swallow down and tell himself were in the past. He didn’t want Jesper to know about those things. He didn’t want Jesper to look at him and think about Wylan fighting his way through a single sentence, whining and pleading that he would get it next time, crying himself to sleep at night. Hundreds of moments shuffled through Wylan’s mind…   
  
He knocked softly on the door, then looked in on Marya. She was sitting by the window, reading. He was surprised to realize how long the shadows were now.  
  
“Mama?” Wylan asked. Internally, he braced himself. She might not recognize him. She might be angry with him for earlier.  
  
Marya smiled.  
  
Warmth crackled through Wylan.  
  
“You’ve gotten very tall,” she told him.  
  
Which wasn’t true compared to others his age, but compared to himself as an eight-year-old was perfectly valid.  
  
“Are you okay? I’m just down the hall if you need anything, or if you get confused—or anything. Me and my friends.”  
  
“The Suli girl…”  
  
“Inej,” Wylan supplied.  
  
“Inej,” Marya repeated. She paused a moment, then, “And Jesper.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Wylan was under no illusions about what this cost his mother. She didn’t know what was what anymore. She might need to be reminded a dozen times that Jan was arrested, there were so many important things she needed to focus on learning—and even knowing that, she prioritized learning his friends’ names.  
  
She smiled. “Go have fun with Inej and Jesper, sweet boy.”  
  
When he reached the linen closet, Wylan took a moment to press his hand over his mouth, smothering almost hysterical giggles.  
  
No, that wasn’t enough.  
  
Even after he saw his mother in Saint Hilde, a part of Wylan had thought she would come home and be… and be his mother. An adult. The lady of the house. He thought she would be in charge, because someone needed to be and it couldn’t be him. He was only fifteen. No one would take him seriously—and he wasn’t up to the task.  
  
It was clear now that whether he felt old enough or ready didn’t matter. His father was in prison. His mother was unwell. There was no one else but Wylan to make these decisions. He understood and he was trying to be a man.  
  
It was terrifying.  
  
But he was trying.  
  
Hearing his mother tell him to go play with his friends felt so safe and simple. She was his mama again. He knew it wouldn’t last, it was no longer his life, but that little moment, her clarity, meant more than he could quite grasp.  
  
Laughter bubbled up inside him. He had longed for years that someone would take care of him—first, as a child, because he knew there was an emptiness in his life. He had been raised by tutors and nannies, and his father did not select the most parental but the most pragmatic individuals for those jobs. He hadn’t understood, just known he felt scared and wrong, and had no other recourse but to stomp those feelings down as best he could. Later he longed for it because he was lost, because he was afraid, and because he wanted someone to value him enough to try.   
  
Wylan finally accepted that this grin wasn’t going away and brought linens back to the master bedroom, smiling like an idiot.


	21. Perfect Moments

Clouds rolled in across the afternoon and a steady drizzle fell throughout the evening. Wylan didn’t know why that made him worry about his mama; the weather wasn’t unusual for Ketterdam, and constant sunshine was too much to ask. He just didn’t want her to wake up disoriented and afraid.  
  
He shook the thought out of his mind as he headed to the Grisha workshop. Wylan did not look forward to seeing Pyotr.  
  
_You hold the indenture,_ Wylan told himself. _You are not behaving unreasonably._  
  
“Good evening, Pyotr.”  
  
“Wylan,” Pyotr grouched.  
  
He didn’t mind that most of the servants called him ‘Mister Wylan’. They knew him as their boss’s son, and were all older than he was. From Pyotr it felt different. Pyotr used his name as a weapon.  
  
Wylan didn’t know what to do about this. He didn’t know how to make Pyotr not resent him. He had offered to release him from the indenture, but he didn’t want that because Sveta didn’t want that. Wylan was polite with Pyotr, but that didn’t seem to matter, either.  
  
“How are they coming along?” Wylan asked.  
  
The conversation was expectedly unpleasant, but Wylan was pleased enough that the project was going well. It was the only thing he could think of that might actually help: making use of the indenture. Wait it out.  
  
“I need three more days.”  
  
“Okay. I’ll be back in two, I’d like to give my opinion before you have a finished product.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
Wylan knew what his father would say. He would say that he held the indenture and he said so. He would glare down the question.  
  
He wouldn’t be asked that question.  
  
Wylan explained, “It’ll be more effective to ensure at that time that we are both working toward the same end. I’ll be back in two days.”  
  
Not seeing any chance of their agreeing, he made that decision.  
  
Leaving the workshop, he felt awkward, uncertain. He didn’t know how to address this situation. He only knew that he was in the situation and determined not to shy away from it.  
  
He went to his mother’s bedroom next.  
  
The day had gone… not terribly, for Marya. Wylan wished he had remembered Radmakker was visiting and could have prepared her for that, and he struggled to think of what she would do all day. What were merchants’ wives—or in this case, mothers—supposed to do all day? He had never thought about it before. If he and Jesper married—Wylan took a moment, ducking his head because he was blushing and grinning ridiculously at the thought, knowing it was too soon but liking to just imagine…—if they married, they would run the company together.  
  
Wylan took a few steadying breaths to make his grin less ridiculous before knocking on Marya’s bedroom door.  
  
“Mama, it’s Wylan.”  
  
For a long moment, too long a moment, there was no answer, but he heard her moving about inside the room. He waited until she opened the door.  
  
“I came to say good night.”  
  
She smiled. “Good night.”  
  
“If you need me, I’ll be right down the hallway in the master bedroom,” he told her for the third time that day. Wylan stood just outside his mother’s bedroom—the guest room that had become his mother’s bedroom. “If you need _anything_ , Mama—”  
  
“You’ll be in the master bedroom with your special friend. I know.”  
  
It was the one thing Marya had been fairly consistent about. Sometimes she forgot who Jesper was, but when she remembered, she made certain Wylan knew that she approved.  
  
That mention turned his ears pink.  
  
“Y-yes.”  
  
He hadn’t told her that they were sharing a bed!  
  
They hadn’t really worried about what they said or did here, but Jesper used the same manners with Wylan’s mother as he had when Colm was present. As far as she knew, Jesper was an easy-going, cheerful guy who said sweet things to her son. It meant a lot to Wylan.   
  
Wylan appreciated all of it. He appreciated Jesper toning down the flirtations in Marya’s presence, he appreciated Jesper returning to full-speed-ahead flirtation in her absence, he appreciated Marya using her moments of clarity to learn about him, he appreciated Inej. At the end of the day, he had the most wonderful people in his life.  
  
It was just—he hadn’t known how she would feel that at the end of the day, he had the most wonderful boy in his bed. He was only fifteen. Not that they… ahem… yet, but…  
  
Apparently Marya didn’t mind!  
  
“Do you have everything you need? I could sit with you for a while.”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
If she insisted…  
  
“Um…” Wylan shifted, rolling the idea of the words, trying to scrape up the courage.  
  
An edge to her voice, Marya said, “I don’t need a nursemaid,” at the same time Wylan blurted, “Can I have a hug?”  
  
They looked at each other for a moment, both embarrassed by the misunderstanding.  
  
“I’m sorry, Mama.”  
  
Anyway, he had been stupid to ask. He was too old for that stuff.  
  
She hugged him. She still held him too tight when she hugged him, and he still didn’t mind. When she let him go, she kissed his forehead.  
  
“Good night, my Wylan.”  
  
“Good night, Mama.”  
  
He swallowed against the lump in his throat, against all the years he had wanted this. And yes, he knew she was not entirely present; yes, he saw her shorn hair and the nightgown she had been wearing most of the day. But they couldn’t go back to what used to be, and they had this, and it wasn’t nothing.  
  
Down the hallway, Wylan braced himself before stepping into the bedroom. He couldn’t think of it as ‘his’ yet—not that the shut-up nursery was ‘his’, either. He wasn’t sure where in this house he fit, besides next to Jesper, which was enough for him.  
  
It was enough.  
  
Because here was Jesper. Wylan stood for a moment, just watching him, smiling.  
  
“Hey, Jes.”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Jesper sat at the desk. There were two mugs on the desk, but he was ignoring them, looking through more of Jan’s papers. Wylan opted for a mug—but then he would, a mug of hot chocolate was far more useful to him. Apparently Jesper had agreed. The other mug was empty.  
  
“How’s Marya?”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “I thought she’d have a few days before she saw Mister Radmakkar, but she’s taking it pretty well, I think. I’m not sure. I don’t know—I don’t know how she’s supposed to be, I don’t know what I’m hoping for, I don’t know where the mark is.”  
  
“But is he looking?”  
  
Wylan sighed, but he was smiling. “Ha, ha… how are you, Jesper?”  
  
“I’m great.”  
  
“I know you are. But is there anything I can do for you?”  
  
Jesper’s response was a look that made Wylan squirm, and not in the good way.  
  
“I want you to be happy. If there’s anything…”  
  
Wylan set down his cup. He traced a finger slowly around the rim. It wasn’t lost on him how much Jesper and Inej had done for him today. How much he had asked. He had said thank you, but it wasn’t enough, not by a far cry.  
  
“Believe it or not, merchling, spending time with you is what I want.”  
  
“Are you bothered by what happened last night?”  
  
“We don’t need to talk about it.”  
  
Wylan nodded. He didn’t know if that meant Jesper didn’t care at all, or cared too much, about killing someone last night. Wylan himself was—relieved. But he didn’t want to say that if Jesper minded what he had done. He didn’t want to encourage Jesper to do something that weighed on him.  
  
So he changed the subject.  
  
“Well… did you find anything useful in the desk?”  
  
“The indenture papers.”  
  
The ones they had scoured the office for! If only Wylan had known his father kept a second desk—but he hadn’t known that.  
  
“Is that my old address? I recognize the street and room numbers,” he explained to spare Jesper the awkwardness of asking.  
  
Jesper shuffled the papers away. “There’s a lot here. I haven’t really organized any of it into my own system yet, I was just looking…” He must have seen how unsuccessfully this was changing the subject, because he gave in and asked, “Why did you keep the letters?”  
  
Wylan shrugged. He knew why, really. Because he was scared. He was too scared to do more than hide them.  
  
“Did you see them?” he asked.  
  
“No, but Inej told me what they said. Wy—we thought you were someone else. We thought the letters were kind.”  
  
Wylan looked at his fingers resting gently against his cup. He took another sip. The hot chocolate was thick and sweet and far better to focus on, but although he knew Jesper wouldn’t push him if he changed the subject, Wylan couldn’t get the question out of his head.  
  
“What did they say?”  
  
He saw the realization hit Jesper.  
  
Wylan swallowed. “Please.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter. He’s gone.”  
  
Something quite bad, then. That did make Wylan more curious. His father’s insults had rarely been subtle. What could he have written to make Jesper, Inej, and Kaz think the letters were kind?  
  
Wylan could hear this from Jesper. He could hear this, the two of them, feeling safe. But… did he need to know? He would wonder for a while, think about it nonstop… for a while. The thoughts would fade. If he absolutely had to have an answer, there was someone else he could ask, someone who would tell him without flinching.  
  
“Okay, just—don’t let him get in your head,” Wylan said, not sure if it was advice or a request. He knew what that man could do when he got into a person’s head.  
  
“I would never do that,” Jesper said. “You’re in there.”  
  
Wylan smiled. Wanting to steer Jesper away from especially poisonous thoughts, he said, “Enough about him, anyway. It’s been a long day… bed?”  
  
“You don’t need me to go to bed, you know.”  
  
“I know.” Wylan glanced at his father’s—at _their_ bed, swallowed, and nodded. He could go to bed by himself. It had been a babyish thing to suggest. He went to retrieve his nightshirt, commenting as he did, “Mama knows about us. She told me. She likes you.”  
  
“Who wouldn’t like me?” Jesper retorted.  
  
Wylan laughed, because—well, who wouldn’t like Jesper? It was easy to remember that there was a time Wylan didn’t like him, but harder to remember why now. “These are some impressive bruises.”  
  
“Yeah? Can I see?”  
  
“It’s only fair. It’s your work.”  
  
Wylan still wasn’t entirely comfortable with being even half-naked in front of Jesper. He knew that was silly; he had seen quite a bit of Jesper, he had been _entirely_ naked in his presence in Fjerda—a memory Wylan strongly preferred not to revisit.  
  
But he was comfortable enough to slip his shirt off his shoulder, revealing the uneven row of bruises Jesper left there the other morning.  
  
“I look good on you.”  
  
“Ghezen…” Wylan muttered, blushing.  
  
Jesper reached out to him, then hesitated—“May I?”, only continuing with Wylan’s permission. His hands were warm and gentle over already bruised skin.  
  
“Do you like it?”  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
“That’s good to know. For next time.”  
  
That _grin_. He was utterly defenseless against that grin. It was an act of mercy when Jesper turned around and gave Wylan privacy to finish changing.  
  
“Did it bother you that I slept in just my shorts last night?”  
  
“No. Was it okay that I held you like that? There was a lot of contact.”  
  
“More than okay. So you wouldn’t mind, if I…?”  
  
“Um.” Wylan liked that idea. He liked that idea very much. “Would it… be okay if I looked?”  
  
“You go right ahead. This body was made to be appreciated.”  
  
“Yes, it was,” Wylan agreed, as requested, appreciating Jesper. He was perfect. Muscles defined like a picture in an anatomy book… the crow and cup on his right forearm… that dust of hair disappearing into his undershorts… suddenly Wylan's chest was tight and he felt a noteworthy lack of blood flowing to his brain.  
  
“ _Ghezen’s books…_ ”  
  
“As much as I’m enjoying this moment,” Jesper said, going to turn down the lamp, “it’s too cold.”  
  
Jesper pushed back the covers and flopped onto the bed before he noticed that Wylan was staring, frozen. Over and over he told himself that it was just a bed—but it wasn’t. It was _his_ bed… and why could he do that? Why was one glimpse enough to trigger something only his subconscious remembered, to take him out of this perfect moment and drop him in another?  
  
“Starlight?” Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan nodded. He didn’t know why.  
  
“I hate him,” he whispered.  
  
“I know.”  
  
A deep breath, a few steps, and Wylan crawled under the covers, and right now, that was enough. Mercifully, Jesper did not say anything. They both drew the covers up to their shoulders, shivering into those first few seconds when somehow being in bed was colder than being out of it.  
  
“Stupid freezing Ketterdam.”  
  
“Come closer, I’ll warm you up.”  
  
“Are you trying to flirt like I do?”  
  
“No,” Wylan lied.  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“Maybe,” Wylan ceded in the face of overwhelming sarcasm. He snuggled closer to Jesper, an arm over his side, legs tangling. “Jes?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Will you tell me something about yourself?”  
  
“I’m ridiculously handsome.”  
  
“Your handsomeness _is_ unreasonable. Tell me something I didn’t already know.”  
  
Jesper didn’t respond at first. Wylan didn’t ask again. He had made the request clear and wouldn’t push if Jesper didn’t want to answer. In the meanwhile the noises in the room grew, the sounds of their breathing and the shift of limbs against bedsheets, the faint drumming of rain from outside.  
  
Then, without any humor in his tone, Jesper said, “My ma was like me. Powerful, though. She taught me how to shoot, maybe because she saw what I was early on, before I could do more than follow after her. I could help her pick up wood after she chopped it, but I couldn’t lift the axe. She could make bread rise or boil water just by snapping her fingers—I couldn’t do those things. I still can’t. But I could shoot. She’s the reason I brought my guns to university. They just—they remind me of her.  
  
“I know shooting’s a sport in Ketterdam, but in the country, it’s just practical. You hunt for food. There’s no stadwatch; sometimes you have to protect yourself.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about her a lot, you brought it up, actually. I think she did know. Maybe she never told me what I was because it wasn’t separate to her. She taught me to tuck my shirt in and clean the dishes, too, things like that are part of life. Being zowa… it’s not like being Grisha. You don’t have to go somewhere else and dress up and fight and die for a country that’s slowly cannibalizing itself. You can just… zowa can live their lives out.  
  
“Why do we have to be more? Can’t I have this, this skill, and still be me? Why can’t that be enough?”  
  
It was much more than Jesper usually shared about his past. Wylan hadn’t been surprised when he started talking about shooting. His ma, though, how she taught him to be like her, what she was like—that was news. The pain he was still carrying at feeling like he wasn’t enough…  
  
Wylan listened patiently while Jesper said what he needed to say.  
  
“You are enough. You’re enough, you’re perfect the way you are.”  
  
“I’m a mess.”  
  
“No, you’re not. You don’t have to have your entire life figured out at seventeen.”  
  
“Says someone with his entire life figured out at fifteen.”  
  
Wylan was quiet a moment, then he said, “Everything was handed to me and I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to deserve it. Besides, I’m almost sixteen!”  
  
“Oh, that’s entirely different.”  
  
“Grumpy old man.”  
  
“Wylan, are you ticklish?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“You _are_ , aren’t you?”  
  
“No, not even a little bit!”  
  
“Saints—”  
  
Wylan tried to squirm away but Jesper was faster, and it would be a lie to say he didn’t like it, Jesper’s hands roving over his body, poking strategically. Actually—he loved it. Loved the touch and the closeness, and only made an effort to wriggle away because of the way Jesper pulled him closer. He couldn’t to keep from laughing and didn’t try in the hopes that meant Jesper would keep going.  
  
“Yes!” Jesper cried when Wylan giggled briefly.  
  
Wylan curled up, protecting his tummy and knowing full well Jesper wasn’t going to let him stay that way.  
  
He was right, but Jesper’s reaction was more than Wylan had hoped. In seconds they were wrestling, Jesper encouraging Wylan to _give up, you’re losing anyway!_ and Wylan laughing and tugging against him, both of them twisting in the covers—  
  
And then Jesper declared victory, sitting on Wylan’s legs and leaning over him, one hand pressing his shoulder into the mattress. Wylan was so far from cold now. He was breathless and sweating, his heart racing. He grinned. Without a lamp, Jesper was just a shadow, a familiar shape above him, but he could picture Jesper’s smile.  
  
All Wylan could think was that Jesper was about to touch him again.  
  
A knock at the door interrupted.  
  
Both boys froze. Wylan took several attempts at a deep breath before he managed, “Yes?”  
  
“Is everything okay in there?”  
  
“Shit,” he whispered. Then, more loudly, “Yes, Mama! We were just—we were… playing…”  
  
Jesper snickered.  
  
“I thought I heard crying.”  
  
“Laughing, Mama. Promise.”  
  
_Please, Ghezen, let her believe me,_ Wylan prayed silently. He wasn’t exactly in any fit state to open the door and speak to his mother! He was too thoroughly Jespered.  
  
“Okay. Good night.”  
  
“Good night!” Wylan called.  
  
Jesper rolled off Wylan and collapsed next to him, laughing.  
  
“It’s not funny,” Wylan objected through giggles.  
  
“Wy.”  
  
“It’s not!”  
  
“Wy.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You said a profanity word.”  
  
“I told you… I can be naughty.”  
  
Jesper laughed, which got Wylan laughing, and together they snickered breathlessly. Wylan reached for Jesper’s hand and brought it to his lips. Jesper drew their intertwined fingers over to kiss Wylan’s knuckles.  
  
“Jesper?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You are enough. You’re perfect, exactly how you are.”


	22. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hesitated to post this chapter; I’ve tried to avoid making it too dramatic and I know Wylan’s already had one breakdown chapter. Ultimately I chose to include it for the same reason I wrote it. Recovery from the psychological damage of abuse is rarely a straight line, and relapses and resurgences happen. 
> 
> That said, it won’t impact anything key to the story if you want to skip it.

“Jes.”  
  
His name, breathless, and Jesper so groggy he might still be dreaming.  
  
Jesper woke to tremors through the mattress and the sound of short, gasping breaths. Was that—was Wylan…? Jesper wondered, amused. Briefly gratified. He had known the merchling had urges!  
  
“Jesper.” A hand on his shoulder shaking him awake. “Please.”  
  
_No._  
  
Jesper’s mind caught up and he realized what he was hearing. Wishful thinking that it might be Wylan indulging himself.  
  
Jesper sat up and pushed back the covers.   
  
In the dark bedroom, he could make out an outline of Wylan, curled up and trembling. The heavy breathing Jesper had noticed was the beginning of a panic attack.  
  
Jesper pulled him close. It was instinct, it was for Wylan… but that didn’t stop Jesper enjoying the closeness, the warm give of Wylan’s skin under his, the comforting heat of their bodies pressed together. There was something reassuring in closeness.  
  
“It’s okay. I’m here.”  
  
“He’ll be so angry,” Wylan said. He sounded… he sounded terrified. Jan Van Eck was safely behind bars, but that didn’t stop the memory of him. “He’ll walk in and he—he’s going to be so angry—I shouldn’t—we—he’s—he…”  
  
“Shh. Breathe,” Jesper said, hearing and feeling as Wylan began to hyperventilate. He rubbed slow circles on his back. “You have to breathe. Don’t think about him. Think about me. Me, Jesper Fahey, your perfect boyfriend-slash-secretary, with a beautiful mouth, and sexy rough hands, and a soothing baritone…”  
  
Whether it was his mouth, his hands, or his voice, thinking about him seemed to help. Wylan’s breathing slowed, not to a healthy pace, but he wheezed less.   
  
“Good. That’s good, Wy.”  
  
Jesper felt like an absolute podge praising his boyfriend like a puppy. He just wanted to keep talking. He didn’t want to leave enough of a gap for Wylan to fill it with apologies. Wylan reacted with noticeable relief at the feeble praise.  
  
“You’re doing really well. Good job.”  
  
It worked. It made Jesper want to squirm, but he felt Wylan’s breathing steady.   
  
Calm Wylan was like a living stuffed animal. Jesper had always preferred having something to cuddle at night. When he was too old to sleep with his stuffed kitty anymore, he had often woken up hugging his pillow or tangled in his blanket. It comforted him. Helped him sleep.  
  
The way Wylan seemed to melt against him… it soothed something in Jesper.  
  
“I’ll just—” he began, leaning toward the bedside table.  
  
“No!”  
  
Wylan grabbed his arm, jagged around the edges.  
  
Now he reminded Jesper of his father’s cat.   
  
Colm started putting out food for the cat when Jesper was eleven, and at first Jesper hadn’t even believed the cat existed. He never saw her. For two years, Colm left out scraps for a cat Jesper doubted was real, until one day he had come home to find his da sitting beside a one-eyed, three-footed, nub-tailed black cat who fled when Jesper tried to pet her.  
  
_She’s real,_ Jesper had said. Then, glum, _And she hates me.  
  
She’s scared, Jes. That’s all._  
  
Jesper never did befriend that cat, but Colm did, finally enticing the creature to let him stroke her fur, then to come inside in the bad weather. Sometime last year, the cat had taken to sleeping at the foot of Colm’s bed. Colm had a stillness to him. The cat trusted that. Eventually, Jesper had understood that the cat’s previous family mistreated her and his sudden energy scared her because it reminded her of anger. Of danger.  
  
He reminded himself of that cat, of Colm telling him she couldn’t help being scared, as Jesper said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to put on the lamp.”  
  
“Don’t. Please.”  
  
Well, it was an historic first: Jesper Fahey found himself at a loss for words. He knew there was more here that he didn’t understand, nightmares upon nightmares left to sift through.  
  
So for a moment he didn’t talk, just quietly cuddled Wylan and let him feel safe.  
  
“He’s not coming back.”  
  
“I know. I know, but—if he did—if he found me—us—in his bed—he would be angry… he…”  
  
“He can’t hurt you anymore.”  
  
“I’m not his heir. He wouldn’t like me using his things…”  
  
“It’s not his bed. It’s our bed.”  
  
Besides, prisoners didn’t get to decide who their heirs were. It was one of many privileges a man lost when he was arrested. Jesper didn’t point that out. Wylan didn’t seem to take any joy in his father’s fall from grace. Maybe he was too afraid to believe it. Fear made things bigger. It was like the stadwatch had tried to clap irons on the monster in the closet.  
  
“He’ll never hurt you again. I’m your strength, remember?”   
  
It had been an incredibly cheesy line, Jesper thought, but Wylan liked it.   
  
Wylan shivered against Jesper’s chest. “It’s okay for me,” he whispered. “I can take it.”  
  
“Me,” Jesper realized. Wylan worried about Jesper being hurt. And those words— _I can take it,_ like that was all that mattered. Another time, he would resent the implication that he was weak. “Come on, I’m tougher than that! Sure, your papa might cook up some twisted plots, but I wouldn’t play that game with him. I’d just punch him.”  
  
After all, Jan Van Eck no longer had his physical protections. He no longer had his household guard or his parem-juiced Grisha. All he had was himself—and that, Jesper knew, was of little value.   
  
That didn’t have the desired effect, so Jesper added, “Really hard.”   
  
Still not quite what he wanted.  
  
“In the dick.”  
  
Wylan snickered.  
  
Now that was more like it, and circumstances aside, it was nice to just sit here with his arms around Wylan. Just to be with him. Just feeling at ease. It was easier in the dark, without his Fabrikator abilities to distract him, and yet…  
  
“We need some light in here.”  
  
“I don’t want you to see me like this.”  
  
“What did he tell you?” Jesper asked softly.   
  
“He was—he didn’t want people to know,” Wylan explained. Justified. Excused. Whatever word, Jesper hated Jan Van Eck all over again. “He thought he was protecting me. He didn’t want me to think I could—how could he have known that someone like you would notice someone like me? He only meant that I shouldn’t expect… because it would hurt too much. To long for what I couldn’t have.”  
  
Jesper had no doubt Wylan had experienced that longing and knew perfectly well how much it hurt. Not for the first time, he wondered _why_. Jan Van Eck did not have to systematically and methodically destroy every part of his son’s life. So _why do it_?  
  
Which was beside the fact he doubted Jan Van Eck would approve of _someone like him_ being with Wylan, anyway—but Wylan did. That was what counted. It also filled Jesper with the sinking awareness that Wylan didn’t realize the imbalance in their relationship was the other way.   
  
“He probably believed he was protecting me—no, he did,” Wylan insisted. He must have heard the scoff Jesper couldn’t quite stifle. “He couldn’t look past my defect. If he couldn’t love me—if my own father couldn’t love me, how could he expect anyone else to?”  
  
“It’s not a defect. And it’s not the most important thing about you.”  
  
There was enough light through the window, and Jesper’s eyes had adjusted enough, that he could find Wylan’s mouth for a soft kiss. It said that he was here and he cared.  
  
“My opinion matters most here, right?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“As the person who will spend his life looking at your face, and the rest of your glorious anatomy?”  
  
“You… I…”  
  
“Because I like your face. I’m going to put the light on now—trust me,” he heard the objection coming, overrode it, and put on the lamp. He would be gentle with Wylan. He would never hurt him. But if he was questioned, especially by the whispers in Wylan’s mind, he _would_ prove himself.  
  
When the light touched him, Wylan shivered but otherwise stayed still, head bowed. It was unsettling for Jesper to see him this way, like some integral part of Wylan was missing. Even the scared, confused boy in the tannery had been more present.  
  
Jesper moved to sit in front of him. He brushed his fingertips along Wylan’s cheek, traced the line of his jaw. He brushed the curls off his forehead, albeit temporarily.   
  
“This is a very nice face you’ve got, Wylan Van Eck.”  
  
Wylan laughed. It was a wet, choked laugh, but a laugh.  
  
“I like looking at you.”  
  
“I’m sorry I—”  
  
“Don’t apologize to me.”  
  
“S—” Wylan caught himself. He nodded. “Thank you.”  
  
“You’re welcome. See, that’s how you take a compliment. Or, if you must apologize, say, ‘I’m sorry, Jesper, that I’m so attractive you can’t focus on anything for more than 10 seconds with me in the room. I’m sorry about that time you stabbed yourself with a fork because I looked so ridiculously gorgeous sucking jam off my fingertips.’”  
  
“That did not happen.”  
  
Jesper said nothing.   
  
“Really?”  
  
Wylan still wasn’t looking at him, so Jesper kissed his hair. “Coming right back, beautiful.”  
  
When Jesper returned, he paused long enough by his side of the bed that Wylan glanced over to see what was happening.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“What’s it look like?”  
  
“It looks like you’re putting on your gun belt…”  
  
“Good. That’s what I’m doing. Because, first, you think it’s sexy,” and the pink that rose in Wylan’s cheeks confirmed he absolutely did, “and second, you’ll know that if anyone comes in here and tries to hurt you, I’ll kill them.”   
  
Softly, just above a whisper, Wylan said, “It’s very sexy. You’re… very sexy.”  
  
Jesper grinned. “That should be my nickname.”  
  
“Very sexy?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Yes, gorgeous?”  
  
Wylan snickered weakly and blushed. “I just get… I get—afraid,” he said. “I’m afraid being with me is making you unhappy, I’m afraid I’m not who you thought, I’m afraid you’ll see me like this and you won’t…”  
  
“That I won’t want you anymore.”  
  
He nodded miserably.  
  
“What do you think I want?”  
  
Wylan shrugged. “Someone who can keep up with you. Someone who makes you smile. Someone who can… satisfy you.”  
  
He was really fixated on the physical, wasn’t he? Jesper wouldn’t deny that he had appetites, but he was fairly certain by now that he put less energy into sating them than Wylan put into worrying about them.  
  
“Ask me,” Jesper said. “Ask me what I want.”  
  
Wylan looked up through those long lashes, eyes damp and vulnerable. What he wanted, in that moment, was to sweep Wylan into his arms and not let go for a good long time. He wanted to feel both of their hearts beating until he couldn’t tell whose was whose.  
  
“What do you want, Jesper?”  
  
“I want,” Jesper said, and his heart was kicking like an unruly creature, thrashing like his da’s cat, “someone smart enough to keep up with me. I want to be in love with someone and be the first person they think about every morning. I want to be happy with that person. I want someone I can laugh with. I want _you_. I have… physical needs, but that’s not saying I need a leg to hump. I need to be touched, I need someone to hold. To hold me. More is fine, but it’s not necessary. It’s like… football.”  
  
“Football?”  
  
“Yeah. It’d be fun to play football.”  
  
Wylan was quiet.  
  
“You don’t know how to play football.”  
  
“I know the basic idea! You kick the ball at the fishing net!”  
  
Jesper couldn’t keep from laughing: “ _Goal_. You kick the ball into the goal.”  
  
“I do not know how to play football.”  
  
“I’ll have to teach you,” Jesper said, adding it to the list. That would be fun. “But not playing football doesn’t make what we have any less. I don’t need the physical stuff until you’re ready. Understand?”  
  
Wylan nodded. “I think so… but I’ve watched you, um, when—when you changed your clothes.”  
  
Jesper blew out a breath, putting the pieces together: “And that’s why you offered to let me watch you this morning, to reciprocate.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“The thing is, I like the attention. I’m comfortable with it. I’m comfortable sharing my body.” Why wouldn’t he be, after all, but this was not the time. “You share what you want when you want. Nothing I choose to do or want to do means you have to do anything different from what you want.”  
  
Jesper had been twelve when he learned. He grew up on a farm, knew what mating was and that it was natural, but he had been _at that age_ and starting to learn that these sorts of things could be fun, too. When his da found him clumsily pressing his mouth against the mouth of a girl with whom he’d snuck out of church, Jesper didn’t know what to expect. He got a Talk. How to respect yourself, how to respect other people, how and why to ask for his partner’s permission—what it means to be an adult.  
  
He knew this was serious when he didn’t even get scolded for sneaking off.  
  
At the time, Jesper had squirmed. _But talking about that stuff’s embarrassing, Da!  
  
If you’re not ready to talk about it, you’re not ready to do it._  
  
Wylan’s question was hesitant. Slow. “Do you… would you want to look at me?”  
  
Slow, but easy to answer!  
  
“You’re gorgeous, Wy,” Jesper said. “I’ll keep telling you that until you believe it, but none of this is about me doing things to you. It’s about doing things with you. Your body is yours. No matter what.” Jesper learned that from his da. He guessed no one had explained it to Wylan. “If I do something—if anyone does something you don’t want, it doesn’t matter if it’s kissing you or touching you or looking at you. It’s still not okay. I’m always going to ask, but if I do something you don’t like, tell me. I need you to promise me you’ll do that.”  
  
“Of course, whatever you want. If you do something I don’t like, I’ll ask you to stop.”  
  
“You’ll _tell_ me to stop.”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
He wasn’t understanding, just agreeing, which was precisely the sort of thing Jesper worried about. There was a difference between saying _I don’t know if I like that_ and saying _stop_. Between asking for respect and demanding it.   
  
“We’re going at your pace. Because if we don’t, if I… if I do something you don’t want, it makes me something I don’t want to be. Until you’re ready to do more, we can kiss and hold each other. It’s enough.”   
  
And until Wylan was ready to honestly and clearly state if something made him uncomfortable, Jesper would triple-check to be sure.  
  
“What if I’m never ready?”  
  
“Then I don’t want it. We don’t need to do everything at once, either.”  
  
“Would you want that? If—if I was ready to have my shirt off… but not show you my…”  
  
“Jesper zones?”  
  
Wylan froze for a moment, then he laughed so hard he fell over. Or maybe he exaggerated the fall, but since it led to Wylan settling against him again, Jesper wasn’t objecting. He wrapped his arms around Wylan. This was more like it, more what they should be. Holding each other and laughing.  
  
“Jesper zones,” Wylan gasped, and promptly dissolved into laughter again.  
  
When he was breathing steadily again, Jesper said, “You do understand, right? You don’t have to let me see or touch anything you don’t want to. I, however, am not shy, you can consider this standing permission to ask any time you want access to my Wylan zones.”  
  
That was enough to set him off again.  
  
“And to think I nearly forgot how much you like euphemisms.”  
  
“They’re my favorite.”  
  
They really had taught him too much about sarcasm in the Barrel.  
  
“I thought I was your favorite.”  
  
“Favoritism’s subjective. You are objectively the best boyfriend in history. And the most handsome.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Funniest. Most gentle.”  
  
It had taken Jesper a few days to realize that ‘gentle’ and ‘patient’ always worked their way into Wylan’s list of compliments for him, and initially, that surprised him. Jesper did not think of himself as gentle and patient. He did not aspire to be gentle and patient. Nor to be otherwise, they simply didn’t seem like particularly sexy traits. Not until he realized that between his physical strength and their care for one another, he was the sort of person Wylan had been taught to fear.  
  
That he was really saying _you make me feel safe_ , and Jesper hadn’t known before how much he needed to hear that.  
  
Jesper thought about what he had read in the journal that afternoon and swallowed a sigh. They must be honest with each other. There was no other way to make this work. He just couldn’t bring himself to say it, not now.  
  
“Earlier, when I was tickling you, was that okay? If I was too rough with you or you felt like you couldn’t tell me to stop—”  
  
“No, no, I, um—really liked it, actually. I was only pushing you back because…” Wylan cleared his throat but it did nothing to stop his blush. Softly, he said, “I felt good when you touched me. I wasn’t sure where your hands would be and—um—it was—enjoyable.”  
  
Jesper grinned. “So you were _flirting_.”  
  
“That was flirting?!”  
  
Saints, he sounded so pleased with himself!  
  
“Yes, it was.”  
  
“Did I do a good job?”  
  
Jesper thought about teasing him— _only okay, you definitely need more practice._ But Wylan sounded so eager…  
  
“So good, beautiful.”  
  
Wylan snuggled closer. “Thank you for explaining all this. And holding me.”  
  
“It’s hardly selfless,” Jesper pointed out. “I like holding you.”  
  
“Maybe,” Wylan acknowledged, “but… I was scared. I thought, I believed that at any moment he would burst through the door with the stadwatch behind him. It felt real. I know it wasn’t. But it felt real. That’s probably not what you meant when you said you wanted to be the first person I thought about.”  
  
“It’s part of what I meant. I don’t mind that I’m who you think of when things get tough. I liked that you trust me.”  
  
It was a silly, romantic notion, and Jesper knew that because he knew what it was like when things got tough. He knew how his focus narrowed to the challenges in front of him, how the countless distractions dissolved and in their place was nothing but the action.  
  
He wanted someone to trust him the way he trusted his revolvers, absurd as it was to imagine. He knew those revolvers. They were ready, reliable, efficient—perfect. _His._  
  
So he was surprised when Wylan said, without a hint of sarcasm, “You’re my hero. Thank you. For being with me, for sitting with me tonight.”  
  
“What else are heroes for?” He didn’t mind.  
  
“Are you really going to wear that to bed?”  
  
Jesper grinned. “You like it, don’t you?”  
  
Wylan hesitantly laid his fingertips on Jesper’s revolver. He’d left the other beside the lamp. Much as Jesper liked dual wielding, he liked not sleeping with a gun jabbing into his hip more. And he liked the way Wylan’s fingers looked gently tracing the mother-of-pearl inlay. Very few people were allowed to touch Jesper’s revolvers.  
  
“Ghezen and all his works, you’re sexy,” Wylan breathed, blushing ruby. He looked like himself again, Jesper noted.  
  
“You’re lucky to have me,” he retorted. He said it to make Wylan laugh—which it did—though he didn’t feel right without adding, “You know I don’t mean that, right?”  
  
“I am lucky to have you,” Wylan said, “and I’m good enough for you. Both.”  
  
Jesper could accept that. He wasn’t sure he agreed, though. Wylan was too good for him. Take the past week. Wylan had seen his stepmother safely out of the city, brought his mother home, and made a comfortable profit selling fruit. _Fruit._ Jesper had nearly had a refreshing brawl with some of his creditors. He hadn’t even written to his da yet.  
  
“Do you want the light left on?”  
  
“I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yeah.” He gave Jesper a shaky smile. “I have you.”  
  
And Jesper just about melted.   
  
Was it too soon to say he loved him again? It was probably too soon to say he loved him again. Instead, Jesper shut off the light and they both settled under the covers. Jesper was quite happy to keep holding on to Wylan. Though it was spring already, that was a chilly season in Ketterdam. Even summer wasn’t proper summer. For the first time since coming to the city, Jesper didn’t mind. Perfect weather for being close to someone else.  
  
Neither of them seemed to be falling back to sleep, though. Jesper knew he had too much to think about. Wylan. Football. Other ‘sports’. The fact he was really pleased to have been woken up in the middle of the night because someone needed him.  
  
“What’s it like to be afraid all the time?” he asked.  
  
“Mm… it wasn’t so bad,” Wylan said. “I had never known anything else. Besides, living here was okay. I always had a soft bed and hot meals to eat. Now… it’s like I forget to be afraid. The fear comes back worse.”  
  
Jesper thought about that. He shifted, trying to find a comfortable position without moving too much away from Wylan.  
  
“You’re not actually comfortable wearing the gun belt, are you?”  
  
“Not exactly,” Jesper admitted. If he were wearing something besides undershorts, then it might be better, but against his bare skin it rubbed too much.  
  
“You’re plenty handsome and strong without it.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Taking Wylan’s word and his own knowledge for it, Jesper took off his gun belt and set it on the table with the second revolver.  
  
“Well, now I put aside my second-favorite, I’ll need my favorite to hold onto,” he said.  
  
“Waffles?”   
  
_Waffles_. The ‘who’s Mark’ of relationships.  
  
Jesper pulled Wylan close. After a soft, “Oh,” Wylan let him and snuggled against his chest.  
  
“Feeling good?”  
  
“I’m feeling perfect,” Wylan replied. A moment later he added, “I mean you. Because you’re perfect.”  
  
Sweet and awkwardly endearing, but Jesper still needed the serious answer: “Do you feel safe?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Good.” He needed to hear that.  
  
Jesper was still struggling with it, too, with knowing how badly someone he was fairly certain he loved had been hurt—was hurting. He needed to know he could do something to help. He needed to hear that he was helping.  
  
“You’re too good to me, Jes.”  
  
“You’re not joking when you say that, are you?”  
  
“Of course I am.”  
  
Wylan was a terrible liar.  
  
So Jesper used the words he had been given: “You are worthy of love. I love you and you are worthy of love.”  
  
Jesper pretended not to notice that Wylan was crying. He knew Wylan didn’t want to talk about it, and remembered the promise he had made— _you can cry if you need to cry_. And, if Jesper was being honest with himself, the pain he felt for the boy he loved, it was fury. He couldn’t get out of his mind that someone had done this. With the gang, Wylan hadn’t been up to their jobs, but he had done his best. He might have been panting and falling and visibly terrified, but he had done his best. He had faced death and Kaz and his father.  
  
But _this_ broke him.  
  
_This_ was his limit: someone loving him on purpose.


	23. Chapter 23

Jesper was beautiful.  
  
They hadn’t fully pulled the drapes to last night and just enough sunlight crept in that morning to make him shine gold at the edges. He was still in his sleep. Studying him now was different, calmer—he could be caught up to, for a heartbeat or two.  
  
Wylan had never been especially religious, but he was intrigued by the way faith and magic mingled for others.  
  
_Zowa_ , Jesper called himself. _Blessed._

There were no blessings in Kerch. There were simply signs. Signs of Ghezen’s favor. Signs of his displeasure. There were things that were and were not and everything, _everything_ had its price.  
  
Zowa.  
  
Wylan did not understand the Saints, nor did he speak Zemeni, but if blessings existed he had no doubt he was in the presence of one.  
  
Beautiful, clever, cheerful Jesper, who never sat still but would be still for Wylan, who held him without question. Wylan couldn’t help thinking of other nights in this house when he had only been able to wish for someone to soothe his hurts, love him, someone not to care that he was stupid. How many times, accepting his infantile, unfixable brain, had he prayed for death?  
  
Last night had been like falling back into a well of every previous pain, and Jesper had brought him back. Wylan felt a strong mix of gratitude and debt—how else did one think of such things, but as a kindness beyond any repayment? But he also saw Jesper, how he looked now while he was relaxed and still.  
  
Carefully, slowly, he edged away from Jesper. This moment was perfect and he wanted to stay in it, but Wylan already felt himself pulling into his thoughts. He couldn’t do what Jesper did, accept and embrace what was. He just… couldn’t. But he had his own ways of saving it.  
  
He had left his sketchpad and a few pencils by the bed. He settled the sketchpad on his knees and began to draw. It was different looking at Jesper asleep, still, and Wylan needed to glance over at him a few times as he worked, but slowly he settled into a rhythm. It was strange, he knew perfectly well what Jesper looked like, but felt like he was seeing him for the first time.  
  
Wylan glanced over—  
  
“Ah!”  
  
He yelped, startling backwards and very nearly dropping his sketchpad. He saved it, but there was an audible crack and a burst of stars when he hit the headboard.  
  
“Ow…”  
  
He had been looking for Jesper, sure—but he had been caught up in his drawing. He hadn’t expected to find Jesper just a few inches away.  
  
“Want me to kiss it better?”  
  
“That’s not the part of my head I want you to kiss.” Remembering their talk last night, Wylan added, blushing a tinge, “But I would like you to kiss me.”  
  
This would have been an excellent time to have a nickname, Wylan thought. To say _I would like you to kiss me, starlight,_ except that was already Jesper’s nickname for him.  
  
“Whatever my sunshine wants.”  
  
See? Like that.  
  
Then Wylan wasn’t thinking about it anymore, because Jesper was moving the sketchpad aside and his hand was cupping Wylan’s head and they were kissing…  
  
After Jesper pulled away, Wylan leaned in and rested his forehead against Jesper’s collarbone. He tried to say something else, but the words stuck in his throat.  
  
“Just you, Jes. I just want you.”  
  
“I’m all yours,” Jesper said, but it sounded more like a question than a flirtation. He put his arms around Wylan. “Are you okay? After last night?”  
  
“I’m okay. I’m… basking.”  
  
“Basking?”  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“Bask away, merchling. You were drawing me, too.”  
  
“You were being beautiful.” That was easier to say when Jesper couldn’t see his blush, even if it was pure fact. “Oh!” Wylan remembered, moving away from Jesper to grab his sketchpad, “I have this one.”  
  
He flipped through the pages until he found the one he wanted.  
  
“Wy…”  
  
Jesper was looking over his shoulder again, and this time Wylan didn’t mind. He had drawn Jesper and Colm the way he had seen them once at the Geldrenner. Jesper had been preparing for his presentation on Zemeni oil futures, and throughout most of that time, he had been visibly stressed, struggling to sit still and stay focused. Wylan felt a mix of anger and guilt remembering the way Kaz had looked at Jesper whenever he got too distracted; he had felt that coldness himself, but not had the guts to say something.  
  
One evening, when Jesper was about at his limit, Colm had gone over to him and put his hand on Jesper’s head. Jesper had leaned against his father, and Colm kept his hand on Jesper’s head, holding him, muttering soft reassurance. Wylan hadn’t been able to hear the words, but the tone made him shiver.  
  
That was how Wylan had drawn them.  
  
“I thought you could send it to your father, when you write to him. I hope it’s okay,” he continued, realizing that was a very private moment he probably hadn’t been meant to see.  
  
He hadn’t thought that might be a problem until now. Wylan was used to being told he was in the way, but somehow didn’t feel it mattered when he saw something someone wasn’t meant to see. It was hard to remember sometimes that he was someone.  
  
“It was a mistake—”  
  
Wylan went to turn the page, but Jesper stopped him.  
  
“No. He’ll like it. Thank you.”  
  
Equally softly, embarrassed like he had been caught at something, Wylan said, “You’re welcome.”  
  
“What else are you drawing?”  
  
Wylan turned the page.  
  
“Genya.”  
  
“Do you think she’d want it? Is that dumb?”  
  
“Don’t call yourself dumb. Nobody calls my boyfriend dumb.”  
  
“She put me back, but I don’t know what I can do to thank her. A drawing is—it’s so small. Not enough.”  
  
“You made her look beautiful.”  
  
“She is beautiful.”  
  
Jesper turned more pages. Not all were single images; sometimes Wylan drew scraps and details crowded together, pieces of days he wanted to remember. People he had known appeared often, even some of the kherguud and Fjerdan soldiers—people who had frightened him, people he couldn’t get out of his head.  
  
About the fourth time Jesper and Colm showed up, though, Wylan began to squirm.  
  
“I don’t want to be weird—”  
  
“Then I have bad news for you.”  
  
Wylan jabbed an elbow into Jesper’s ribs.  
  
Jesper wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. “What were you going to say, my precious little weirdo?”  
  
“I had never seen anything like how Colm is with you. He really loves you. You could tell, as soon as he saw you in the Boeksplein.”  
  
Wylan hadn’t known how to capture that, what it was about Colm and how he interacted with his son. Wylan had seen other parents before who probably loved their children, but merchants were reserved sorts and not unconditional in anything, and even in the Barrel he’d only ever glimpsed peeks at it. But in all of that, he had never seen anything like Colm Fahey.  
  
“He’ll be your da, too,” Jesper said.  
  
“Are we talking about getting married again?” Wylan joked.  
  
He didn’t want to talk about that. He didn’t want to acknowledge how much time he had spent watching Jesper and Colm and daydreaming about what it would be like to be Jesper, it was embarrassing. The nasty, shameful thoughts that crept in sometimes— _he would be a better son_ …  
  
Serious, Jesper replied, “I mean it. He’ll be your da.”  
  
Wylan wanted to believe that. He wanted so badly for Colm Fahey to be his da…  
  
Wylan kissed Jesper and said, “That’s too much to think about before breakfast.”  
  
“Mm. Breakfast, though.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Jesper pressed his hands to his face.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Covering my eyes so you can go change in the closet.”  
  
“Podge,” Wylan grumbled, but he headed for the closet, grateful to Jesper for so much—respecting that Wylan needed privacy, wanting him anyway, being so ridiculous they could laugh about it instead of letting it be this awkward silence between them. As he buttoned his trousers he called, “By the way, you’re perfect!”  
  
“What? I can’t hear you!”  
  
“I said you’re perfect!”  
  
“Louder please!”  
  
“Ghezen and all his works…”  
  
Wylan hadn’t buttoned his cuffs or tucked in his shirt yet, but he was dressed enough to leave the closet. Jesper was brushing his teeth, so Wylan hugged him and kissed the back of his shoulder. It was an awful lot of almost-contact, of bare skin separated from more bare skin by just a thin layer of cloth, enough that Wylan needed to scrape together his breath before he could speak.  
  
“You’re perfect,” he repeated.  
  
Jesper squeezed Wylan’s hands. There was nothing romantic about tooth-brushing—spitting and rinsing was not the stuff of pulp novels—and Wylan had loosened his grip by the time Jesper finished up. When he turned, his hand went to Wylan’s shoulder, the one with the fading bruises.  
  
“Is this okay?” Jesper asked. “What we talked about last night—I like seeing the marks I left on you, but if it makes you feel less like your own, I won’t do it again.”  
  
“It doesn’t,” Wylan said. “I like it. I like… being yours. If I’m my own to do with as I like, then that liking can include sharing myself with you.”  
  
The statement came out more as a question than a certainty, but Wylan was just pleased he’d managed to say the words without blushing or look away. _I belong to myself_. It was new… it was nice. Mildly terrifying, but nice. The words brought into sharp awareness something Wylan had sensed but not quite understood before: he was in control now. He didn’t have to think about how Jan would want the company run or how to keep Kaz happy and avoid ridicule.  
  
Jan had never said Wylan belonged to him. He had never needed to; it had always been clear that Jan determined if Wylan was of value, what he would do, where he would go, when he would hurt. When he would die. For all his small defiances, Wylan had never actually thought he was making his own choices, only postponing fulfilling his father’s wishes. Even when he thought about ending it, almost a year ago, he thought most strongly about what would disappoint his father the least.  
  
It was the way of the world, and Wylan had known he belonged to Jan just like he knew to walk on his feet and breathe into his lungs.  
  
Only once both he and Jesper were dressed and had brushed their teeth and splashed water on their faces, and Wylan had made a futile effort at putting his curls in some sort of order, did they leave the room.  
  
Inej, Jesper, and Wylan had taken meals in the music room. With Marya, they shifted that to the dining room.  
  
“It’s okay,” Jesper said.  
  
He squeezed Wylan’s hand. Wylan tapped his thumb three times on Jesper’s thumb, telling him something he didn’t have the courage to say in words.  
  
“Yes,” Wylan agreed.  
  
Yes, everything was okay.  
  
They stood in the doorway, looking at the room. Wylan hadn’t been in here since… since _it happened_. Since he melted down to nothing and Jesper had to walk him upstairs because left to his own devices Wylan would have curled up on the floor and slept there rather than face any more of reality.  
  
Wylan hadn’t needed to find a new table. As it turned out, his father had placed an order the day after the old one was broken. They had lain some boards over the hole in the office floor. Repairing that would take some time. It would take Wylan bothering to find someone to do the work. He supposed if they were going to spend time in the dining room, he ought to.  
  
He took both chairs from the ends of the table and dragged them, one by one, into the hallway. Maybe it was stupid, just an empty symbol, but it settled his concerns some.  
  
“You know that’s your seat, right?” Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan shook his head.  
  
“Hey.” Jesper stopped Wylan with a gentle hand on his forearm. “Do you know why I call you ‘Mister Van Eck’?”  
  
In truth, Wylan had given it little thought. Jesper had loads of nicknames for him. Given the look on his face, Jesper used that one differently.  
  
“Because it’s funny?” Wylan guessed.  
  
“Because you are. You’re the head of a merchant empire. This is your house. The people working here are your employees. You’re in charge, you’re making the decisions. When everyone calls you Wylan, it just reinforces that you’re a child to them.”  
  
“I _am_ ,” Wylan said. “My father liked to keep his staff. Hire well and you only need to hire once, and a former servant is a potential liability. There are people here who have known me since before I had teeth.”  
  
“Well, you have teeth now. My tongue can confirm.”  
  
Wylan rolled his eyes.  
  
“Think about it, sunshine.”  
  
“I will. But for now I need to check on Mama and see if Inej is joining us.”  
  
“You take care of Marya, I’ll check in with Inej.”  
  
Wylan nodded. He appreciated Jesper doing that, finding an excuse to be elsewhere so Wylan would have time with Marya, especially since there was no telling what state he might find her in. Everything wrapped up in that… Wylan’s own pain and shame at his mother’s fractured state of mind… he didn’t know how to talk about it, how to _think_ about it.  
  
Instead, he took Jesper’s hand and kissed his knuckles.  
  
“Don’t be too grateful,” Jesper said. “I’d get bored with nothing to do.”  
  
“You’re never bored around food.”  
  
When he reached Marya’s bedroom, Wylan was glad not to have Jesper with him. He knocked, called out. When she didn’t respond, he let himself into the room.  
  
He found his mother sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, picking at her cuticles.  
  
“Mama?”  
  
She gave him a long look, blinked.  
  
“You’re early today,” she said.  
  
Wylan shook his head. “No, Mama. You’re at home, remember? You came home yesterday. You can hear the magpies.”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
The information seemed to confuse her. She looked around, sought clues. Wylan remembered the cold feeling that had gripped him on his first night in the Barrel, when he realized his father truly had been behind the horrific events on the boat. He remembered the feeling, like everything he believed had been stripped suddenly away.  
  
He realized he wasn’t sure how her days were meant to begin. Whenever he arrived at the asylum, she was either already up and about or unable to leave her bed. He hadn’t thought to ask for those details. If he asked, he was bringing home a patient, not his mother.  
  
If he asked, it became real.  
  
“Do you need help with your clothes?”  
  
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She nodded.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Wylan wished, not for the first time, that he had Jesper’s suaveness. He wished he could just talk to her, about something, about nothing, about anything, wished he could be at ease so he could help his mama be at ease. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t like that, he wasn’t Jesper.  
  
Instead, they were both awkward as he helped her dress.  
  
Wylan knew nothing of ladies’ underthings and was fairly certain she was supposed to have something for her chest, but he didn’t know what, or how to find it, and Marya wasn’t speaking. It occurred to him that she probably could do this for herself but would need time to remember—all these years, had she truly not been given the freedom even to put clothes on her own body? Didn’t anyone notice that she was still herself?  
  
Across all their meetings these past weeks, Wylan had put little thought on his mother’s clothes. He thought about them now. He noticed that her dress was loose, made without laces and with buttons only on the back; he noticed it was dyed a cheap black; he noticed it had no pockets. Nothing for her to harm herself with, he realized, nowhere to keep anything private.  
  
When he knelt to help with her shoes, she snapped, “I can do that.”  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
“I can comb your hair if you like…”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
He knew how to take care of that hair. It was just like his.  
  
Her words were sharp, but he didn’t feel the edges. They were both uncomfortable and awkward, Wylan blushing from his mother’s frailty and inability and the sight of her half-naked body, Marya ignoring the silent tears streaking down her face. Wylan wanted to apologize that his mother had to endure those long years that made her this way, but he kept that thought inside himself.  
  
She put on her shoes. Slippers, he realized—no laces, no buttons.  
  
He combed her hair.  
  
He dabbed her face dry on his sleeve and told himself for the ten thousandth time in two days to start carrying handkerchiefs.  
  
“I love you, Mama.”  
  
“I have always loved you.”  
  
“Would you like to come downstairs to have breakfast?”  
  
Slowly, Marya nodded.  
  
Jesper was waiting for them in the dining room. Wylan met his eyes and didn’t say a word, but saw that Jesper understood it had been a difficult morning already.  
  
“Good morning, Mrs. Van Eck.”  
  
Marya regarded him for a moment and everything inside Wylan tied itself in knots.  
  
“You’re Jesper.”  
  
Wylan breathed a tiny sigh of relief.  
  
“The one and only.”  
  
“Isn’t it a common name in Novyi Zem?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Don’t try to diminish my originality with your facts.”  
  
Jesper kept Marya engaged in a casual conversation—yes, he liked Ketterdam, though the weather was dreary; had she ever visited Novyi Zem; yes, the weather was much better there…—making the weather fascinating through breakfast. Slowly, Marya began to seem more herself.  
  
Inej did not join them. Jesper reported she had already left for the day, doing… well, whatever it was she did. She had very much remained a keeper of secrets.  
  
“How did you two meet?” Marya asked.  
  
Wylan froze, his hand on his glass.  
  
_Well, you see, after I had to run away, I was working in a tannery in the Barrel when a gang leader sent Jesper, who was in said gang, to recruit me to build explosives for them. I just want you to know, Mama, I tried to refuse. I really did. But then they sent me a letter so I knew that Father had found me and I was more afraid of him than I was of Kaz. His bark is worse than his bite. Kaz, I mean. Father’s bite is far worse._  
  
He didn’t want her to know. Suddenly, Wylan was grateful he never got that tattoo. He wanted her to keep seeing him as her good son, not what he had become.  
  
Suddenly, he was ashamed.  
  
“At the university!” Wylan blurted far too quickly. “Yes—that’s where we met—Jesper was at the university and I was meeting a tutor there, in the library.”  
  
Jesper didn’t laugh. Wylan was grateful for that, and sure he wanted to when he heard Wylan spin that crazy story. He briefly gave Wylan a look that warned just how hilariously bad the lie was, then placed a hand on his and picked up the story: “Of course this guy takes one look at me and he’s tail over teakettle—”  
  
“That’s not—” Wylan began, then admitted, “It’s a little true.”  
  
“And the next thing you know we’re getting ice cream and joking about running away to Fjerda.”  
  
_Fjerda?!_ They couldn’t talk about Fjerda!  
  
“It was the ice cream. It’s cold in Fjerda and… ice cream… is also cold…”  
  
Jesper leaned closer and whispered, “Laugh, then drink, it’s starting to look weird.”  
  
Realizing he had not let go of his glass, Wylan managed a chuckle and then gulped his milk.  
  
He saw more and more that he didn’t know what to say to his mother. He didn’t want to ask about where she had been in case it might upset her, and he didn’t want to tell her where he had been and what he had done. Instead they made awkward small talk about the food and weather.  
  
“Mama, how about painting outside today? Would you like that?” Wylan remembered initially thinking that her hair looked like it had been left out in the sun, how much happier she had seemed when they were outside.  
  
It brought an absent smile to Marya’s face. Wylan smiled back, silently pleased with himself.  
  
“I’ll help you set up in a few minutes, okay?”  
  
Softly, Jesper reminded him, “You can have someone else do that, babe.”  
  
“I can—”  
  
“Wylan, you don’t have to do everything yourself.”  
  
Wylan nodded. That was probably for the best. Right? Secretly, he was a little relieved. That bought him extra time to figure out what to say to her.  
  
Not sure how to put his feelings, he stretched up on tiptoe to kiss Jesper’s cheek.  
  
He asked Sanne to help his mother; Jan would have called her a girl, which was unsettling since she was about the same age as Alys. Wylan just called her Sanne. He knew she and Jette were close, officially were cousins but he didn’t think they were actually cousins. They were friends, though, and complementary in personality. While Jette was polite, often quiet, Sanne… well…  
  
“Would you say you’re persuasive?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Oh… I can be,” she said, giving her shoulders a little shimmy that told Wylan _exactly_ how she enacted that persuasion. She reminded him a little of Nina—and he knew perfectly well how often Nina got her way!  
  
“I’d like you to run an errand for me later today, Sanne.”  
  
“Whatever you need, Mister Wylan,” she told him in that syrupy Nina voice.  
  
Disinterested but very impressed, he explained what he wanted.  
  
It was already the start of a long day, but when Wylan went to check on his mother in the garden she was painting and looked happy. She had started a new painting. Early days yet, the painting was mostly canvas, too soon to guess what it was.  
  
He didn’t disturb her.  
  
Instead, he headed for the stable.  
  
He heard Jesper as soon as he stepped inside, soft, reassuring murmurs: “…nearly finished brushing your coat, yeah, I know how you feel about standing still, I sympathize…”  
  
Wylan said nothing. He watched for a while as Jesper brushed the horse’s coat, listened to the stream of reassurances. _Lucky horse_.  
  
“…nice day today. Ish. Well, it’s a nice day for Ketterdam. You’ve never seen a real nice day, growing up here—”  
  
“She was born in Ravka.”  
  
“Saints, Wylan!” Jesper yelped, startled.  
  
Wylan grinned.  
  
“You’re hilarious,” Jesper informed him drily, coming over to put his arms around Wylan.  
  
“I’m lucky I’m pretty,” was Wylan’s reply. He smiled up at Jesper, at how calm he looked, his perfect mouth and eyes like the sky just before lightning. The closeness was enough to make Wylan’s heart race.  
  
“Mmm, yeah, you are… I want to kiss you right now.”  
  
“You should.”  
  
“I want to push you against that wall and kiss you until I’m the only thing keeping you from falling over.”  
  
“ _Ghezen_ ,” Wylan breathed.  
  
The sky before lightning.  
  
Energy gathering, crackling, a rush of adrenaline heading fast south.  
  
“Can I do that, Wylan?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You’ll tell me to stop if you don’t like it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“You know you don’t have to—”  
  
“Dammit, Jesper, kiss me!”  
  
_Don’t make empty promises._  
  
He had not made an empty promise.  
  
The wall at Wylan’s back, Jesper in front of him, Jesper’s mouth covering his and his hand on Jesper’s neck and the other buried in his shirt and the heat of his skin and that rush, that rush, that rush of blood draining out of his head… Wylan didn’t intend the noises he made with that kiss. He couldn’t stop himself moaning at it.  
  
They were both grinning and breathing heavily when Jesper pulled back, but Wylan saw a change in his eyes, pupils widened, a glimmer. It wasn’t the way he looked after a fight, but it was a fraction of that.  
  
“You’re beautiful,” Wylan told him, breathless.  
  
Jesper kissed him again.  
  
“That was…”  
  
“Okay?”  
  
Wylan laughed. “Little more than that.”  
  
“Good?”  
  
“More.”  
  
“Great?”  
  
“More.”  
  
“Phenomenal?”  
  
He grinned. “More.” Then, when Jesper opened his mouth to suggest another descriptor, Wylan repeated it: “More,” but different this time, hungry, reaching up for another kiss.  
  
Wylan wasn’t sure what would have happened after that kiss. He had no intention of slowing down; he was not thinking with his brain by that time.  
  
A loud whinny of complaint interrupted them.  
  
Jesper sighed, so close Wylan felt the air leaving his mouth.  
  
“Duty calls.”  
  
“I don’t like sharing you.”  
  
“That’s because you’re spoiled, coppercurls.”  
  
The nickname helped. It wasn’t one of Jesper’s flirtier choices and signaled to Wylan’s mind that the time had come to _focus!_  
  
“Can I help?” he asked.  
  
They took the horses outside, then Wylan helped clean out the stalls. He couldn’t help wrinkling his nose, but he did the work.  
  
“I was looking for you for a reason.”  
  
“Jesper time isn’t reason enough?”  
  
Wylan smiled. Jesper time was _definitely_ reason enough.  
  
“I sent Sanne to talk to a tailor, convince him to see me today or tomorrow despite the quarantine. Do you want to come?”  
  
“To see a tailor?”  
  
“For a suit—if you want one. You don’t have to, but if you want to have something…”  
  
“If I want to dress like a merch, you mean.”  
  
“Yes,” Wylan admitted, “if you want to.”  
  
He didn’t have to. Wylan would never ask Jesper to give up the things that made him special, nor ask him to look like everyone else, try to be like everyone else. He wanted Jesper to have the option, though. If he _wanted_ to fit in sometimes, he ought to have the option.  
  
Jesper said, “Maybe one suit. I’ll need something to wear to your father’s funeral.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not attending my father’s funeral.”


	24. An Evening on Geldstraat

The days fell into a comfortable rhythm. Jesper and Wylan began reading through Jan’s papers, learning about their trading empire. Jesper was a strong reader but poor sit-stiller, though having Wylan helped. He snuggled close and Jesper teased his curls or twined their fingers together as he read.  
  
They didn’t keep their reading to the office, either. One afternoon they settled outside, under an alder tree. Like much of what Wylan had inherited, owning trees spoke to wealth, to owning land enough to house such a plant. It also made for a pleasant place to read.   
  
Wylan sighed softly as he looked up at the budding leaves and pollen. This was perfect. His head was pillowed in Jesper’s lap, Jesper’s fingers toying with his hair.  
  
He could just about stay here forever.  
  
Just about… except…   
  
“That’s it,” Wylan interrupted.  
  
“Rude,” Jesper said, but Wylan heard the relief in his voice.  
  
The other advantage to their closeness was that it allowed Wylan to feel when Jesper was reaching his limit. When he became too tense or fidgeted too abruptly, Jesper needed to stop. Wylan had seen him push himself. He didn’t want to be the person who asked for that, he didn’t want to hurt Jes, he didn’t want to be the person for whom Jes would hurt himself. Especially not over something as trivial as the rye fields near Lij.   
  
“We’ve been sitting too long,” Wylan complained, sitting up and stretching. “I’m getting stiff.”  
  
“I can help with that.”  
  
Wylan pinked, but he gave Jesper a quick, shy peck on the cheek. “You’d have to catch me,” he said. Then scrambled to his feet and bolted.  
  
With a very promising laugh, Jesper took off after him.  
  
Wylan couldn’t remember ever feeling this happy on Geldstraat. He ran and he laughed, weaving around the stable and past the kitchen door, making a mad dash for the corner of the house because if he could get to the front he was fairly certain he could get inside and lose Jesper—maybe he could hide in the coat closet. Hiding would be almost as much fun as the moment Jesper inevitably found him—  
  
Wylan didn’t make it.  
  
Jesper caught him and literally swept him off his feet.  
  
Wylan yelped. “Put me down!”  
  
“Make me.”  
  
“Jesper!”  
  
“Pay the toll.”  
  
Wylan rolled his eyes. He secretly loved this game, but put up a fuss anyway. Jesper first said it two days ago. Wylan had needed to guess what it meant—as far as he could tell, it meant, _Flatter me._  
  
Which he liked.  
  
He did not have Jesper’s knack for weaving compliments into the conversation. It was frustrating. He had all these thoughts in his head, detailed ways in which Jesper was wonderful and beautiful, and he could never find a way to just _say them_. Was he supposed to just sit down next to him one day and start talking about how Jesper had a smile like sunshine, but not just any sunshine, not the weak sunshine that filtered through the fog and between the cramped buildings in Ketterdam, more like being out in the open when the wind blew the clouds off the sun, and you still had goosebumps from the chill and it was like every nerve was raw to that warmth… yeah, Jesper was that kind of sunshine.  
  
Of course if Wylan tried to explain that he would bungle it a thousand times, so he stuck with simpler compliments that he had the eloquence to manage.  
  
“You’re perfect,” Wylan said. “You have a dimple right here and it's the best dimple I’ve ever seen. When you smile, your whole face lights up like a star. You have never let your friends doubt that you care.”  
  
Jesper set Wylan on his feet, but kept an arm around him.  
  
Ghezen’s ledger, he was beautiful this way. His grey eyes sparkled and he was grinning with his lips parted just slightly, and Wylan was struck all over again by how perfect Jesper’s mouth was…  
  
He leaned closer…  
  
A shriek and crash from inside interrupted. Wylan sighed, drawing back. A stab of resentment flared through him— _did she have to do this now?!_ He knew she couldn’t help it and his resentment shamed him, but he felt it nonetheless.   
  
Playtime was over.  
  
“I owe you a kiss.”  
  
Jesper nodded. “Go.”  
  
Wylan headed for the nearest way into the mansion, the kitchen door. He paused for a moment there. He turned back, blushed a blistering shade of pink, and blew a kiss.  
  
Jesper grinned his light-up-the-world grin. Wylan couldn’t help grinning back.  
  
“Down payment,” Jesper said.   
  
_“Wylan!”  
  
_Wylan’s eyes widened in shock. Half the time his mama barely recognized him. Could she really be calling for him now? He wasn’t sure if he ought to feel encouraged by her awareness or stung by the desperation in her voice.  
  
He bolted inside.  
  
“Third floor,” Jette said as Wylan ran past her on the stairs. He nodded in gratitude, but didn’t break his stride.  
  
Third floor.  
  
He heard his name again. Marya was looking for him.   
  
And he heard crashing.  
  
A member of the household guard stood outside the door to the nursery, looking uncertain. Wylan couldn’t recall the man’s name, but gave him a nod in greeting.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
Marya was in the nursery. Wylan arrived just in time to see her hurl a drawer across the room. She had, it seemed, taken it upon herself to do what he hadn’t the courage to: destroy the nursery.  
  
“Mama?” he asked, only slightly breathless from taking the stairs full tilt.   
  
Marya fixed on him. She was wild-eyed, panicked, but he noticed smears of paint on her hands and one on her cheek. He was grateful for it—she had been painting. So she had been happy, if only for a while.   
  
“Where is he?” she demanded.  
  
“He’s in prison. He tried to manipulate the markets.”  
  
“No!”  
  
The pain in her voice startled and hurt.   
  
“Jan is behind this! Wylan would never do something like that, not my son.”  
  
“I am—”  
  
“ _JAN!_ ”  
  
“Mama—”  
  
“Jan Van Eck!” Marya cried, starting for the door.   
  
Wylan stopped her, knowing it would lead to a struggle. It did. He was getting better at restraining her, but still took a clout and scratch in the effort. In a way, it was endearing. This was for him. She was fighting for her son.  
  
“Let me go! Jan! Jan!”  
  
“No, Mama, it’s Wylan!”  
  
“He’ll pay for this!”  
  
“I’m Wylan, Mama! I’m Wylan, I’m here!”  
  
She paused. Regarded him.  
  
“He took you away from me…”  
  
Wylan nodded. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t help. I was too young to understand.”  
  
“But Jan is gone. Yes, Jan is gone. Him this time. He should have known I wouldn’t give him another,” Marya said.  
  
“Yes, Mama,” he assured her. He had no idea what she was talking about, but wasn’t going to fight.  
  
He had just… closed the door. He had closed the door and planned to have everything sent to Alys for his baby brother or sister, soon, soon, but it hadn’t seemed pressing. So he left “his” bedroom as a nursery. He hadn’t anticipated his mother finding it that way. He hadn’t anticipated what she would go through, her mind already unsteady, seeing the evidence that Jan had tried to replace her son.  
  
Wylan swallowed as he realized how unsustainable this was. That baby brother or sister… they were still his family. So was Marya.  
  
He looked around at the chaos surrounding them, at the broken furniture and tiny clothing on the floor.  
  
“Mama… Jan remarried.”  
  
He braced himself, but Marya only nodded.  
  
“Her name is Alys,” Wylan offered, the sentence coming out halfway a question. “She… she’s been kind to me. She’s very young but…”  
  
Alys was by Jan’s side for some of the… well, Jesper would call it abuse. But Wylan never blamed her for anything. She simply took Jan’s word as truth when he told her Wylan was a strong-willed boy who needed to be reined in. That his bad habits needed correcting. She didn’t know he was being cruel to both of them when he would ask Alys to do something— _would you read this, my dear, Wylan’s not up to the challenge._ It had hurt Wylan, but he knew Alys was trying to be his friend. She would just smile and say something like, _Poor Wylan. I get headaches after long days, too_.  
  
Marya hugged him close, then held him at arm’s length and patted his cheek.  
  
How had Jan gone from her to Alys?   
  
Which of them was what he wanted?  
  
Was Wylan like that? Was it in his blood, to turn? He tried to imagine himself, thirty years from now, having cast Jesper aside for some vapid blond a fraction of his age. The thought turned Wylan’s stomach. That wasn’t him. Right? Because he knew he wasn’t always everything Jesper needed, but he tried…  
  
“You’re here,” Marya said.  
  
Had she—no. She couldn’t have known how he needed to hear that. She was observing for herself.  
  
“Yes. Yes, I am here, Mama.”  
  
“You had a different bedroom.”  
  
“I sleep in the master bedroom now. With Jesper, remember? My special friend?”  
  
Marya nodded. There was a hint of something dangerous in her tone, however: “But you had a different bedroom before. You had a place in this house.”  
  
Wylan swallowed. He hated lying. He met his mother’s eyes, watching the worry grow, knowing he _had_ to speak up, _had_ to assuage her fears, but at the same time feeling something dark spin inside him at the realization that she knew.  
  
Had someone—no.  
  
The only person who knew was Prior, and he had been dead before Marya came home. No one told her what had happened on the boat that day. No one would, could, use it to hurt her.   
  
“I was going to study music in Belendt…”  
  
“Oh, of course,” Marya said with a relieved sigh. “Of course you were, you were always so talented. You did need a curved head joint longer than most…”  
  
Wylan blushed. Yes, he remembered very well using the sort of flute modified for children too small to reach the keys properly! More importantly, that was not about ability, purely about height. And most importantly—under no circumstances would he allow Jesper to learn the phrase ‘curved head joint’.  
  
Marya stayed beside Wylan as evening wore on. He didn’t mind, mostly, though he worried about bringing her to meet with Thijs.   
  
On his first meeting with Thijs, Wylan had sensed that the man either owed someone or simply drew the short straw. Wylan had asked that someone from the household guard teach him to fight. Thijs had the misfortune of being twice Wylan’s size. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties. And he had clearly been nervous at the prospect of swinging a fist at his boss.  
  
But after a few days they were familiar enough with each other for Thijs to simply nod a greeting  
  
“You probably remember my mother,” Wylan said by way of introduction, “from… before.”  
  
“I do. Good evening, Mrs. Van Eck.”  
  
Marya nodded a half-absent greeting.  
  
“It’s only training, remember, Mama.”  
  
That did not stop him checking on her every few minutes, glancing over to be certain she was well. He couldn’t help thinking of those lost years. Every time he looked over at his mama, her eyes were on him. She had spent nearly eight years missing her son, mourning him. He was what she held onto in the darkness. The paintings made that clear enough. He thought about what the asylum administrator had said, about Marya trying to escape to find him.   
  
And he thought about the grieving he had never done, the way he simply pushed thoughts of her out of his mind, the fact that he had forgotten so much about her.  
  
Wylan hit the ground with a heavy thump. They had practiced falling, but it still wasn’t instinct to slap the ground and tuck his chin.  
  
“You okay, Mister Wylan?” Thijs asked, offering a hand up.  
  
Wylan took it.  
  
“Fine. I’m going to fall sometimes, Thijs. Others won’t help me back up.”  
  
He hadn’t been paying attention. They both knew it was the reason he had fallen, that he hadn’t been paying attention. In a real fight, that could get him killed.  
  
Thijs let go of his hand.  
  
This time Wylan managed to tuck his chin, though the fall still knocked the wind out of him. As picked himself up, he said, “Just like that. Thank you.”  
  
Wylan focused more as the lesson continued, waiting until Thijs gave him a break to catch his breath or gauging when he had the split second to spare, and only then checking on his mother. He realized it made him a better fighter, too, more keenly aware of what was happening. Of course he knew it was all controlled, Thijs only tossing out what Wylan could handle, but still he felt he was handling it better.  
  
Wylan was a sweaty mess by the end of the session, and he was pleased with that. He’d felt weak for too long. He might only feel a hair stronger now, but he felt stronger.  
  
He thanked Thijs before he and Marya were on their way.  
  
“One more thing to take care of,” Wylan promised. He knew he ought to clean up properly, but didn’t want to leave Marya’s side for so long. He settled for splashing water on his face and running a damp hand through his curls.  
  
Marya smiled at him. “So grown up…”  
  
Wylan didn’t think that was accurate, but he let her believe it. She seemed happy about it.   
  
They headed to the Grisha workshop, where Wylan gave the final look-over to the project he had asked Pyotr to complete. As he did so, Marya struck up a conversation with Sveta, who seemed to take to her so well that Wylan prolonged his conversation until Pyotr had to all but shove them both out the door, Wylan clutching a little pair of slippers to his chest.  
  
He tied a ribbon around the slippers and set them beside Inej’s plate at the dinner table.  
  
Wylan and Marya were the last to arrive, so he saw Inej’s face shift as she realized what she had been given. Wylan had recovered Inej’s slippers once before, finding them in the prison laundry, and he hadn’t forgotten her smile that night. If anything, the smile she offered tonight was even more dazzling.  
  
“Oh, Wylan!”  
  
He smiled back. “I don’t know what you’re planning for the future, Inej, but you don’t look right without them.”  
  
“But how did you do this?” she asked, removing her shoes and trying on the new slippers. She gave them a little bounce. “They’re perfect! Thank you. I’ll test them further after dinner,” she added as the meal was brought to the table.  
  
Wylan grew up with servants; that wasn’t something he considered before. Now, having lived from the other side, he was less comfortable with the concept but remembered to always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.   
  
He glanced at Jesper across the table. Before, Wylan would have sat next to him; he was beside Marya now, and though that meant distance from the most delightful boyfriend in history, it came with a drastically improved view.  
  
Jesper smiled back. “Hello again, sunshine.”  
  
“Hello again yourself.”  
  
“Wy, how did you do that? Those slippers are almost an exact fit.”  
  
“Almost?” Inej questioned.  
  
Wylan shrugged, suddenly self-conscious: “You know I’ve always been curious how things work and I had made a few sketches…”  
  
He noticed that Inej was watching him with his food and slowed down making a _kuiltje jus_ , a little well in his stamppot which he filled with gravy. He hadn’t thought about it before, but while stamppot was common enough in Ketterdam, it did not always come with gravy and one did not always trust the gravy in certain quarters. Wylan had learned that lesson the hard way.   
  
“He’s always had a talent for proportional drawing,” Marya said. “From the time he was very young, always. Don’t you remember?”  
  
He didn’t.  
  
“Of course, Mama.”  
  
Wylan only briefly took his attention off his food. A week of steady meals had not erased the memory of months without. Though he knew the rookworst was already cut up to spread it evenly across four plates—the markets had not yet reopened after the plague alarms, such large gatherings were hotbeds for spreading illness when the illnesses existed—Wylan was secretly relieved. He didn’t want to think about how suggestive Jesper could be with an intact sausage.  
  
Or rather, he absolutely wanted to think about how suggestive Jesper could be with an intact sausage, but not in front of people.  
  
“How was your day, Inej?” Wylan asked.  
  
“It was fine, thank you.”  
  
She kept her secrets and Wylan didn’t chase them.  
  
Jesper asked, “Aren’t you going to ask about my day?”  
  
“Your day was great, Jes, you spent it with an adorable flautist,” Wylan reminded him, unable to keep from blushing when he called himself ‘adorable’.  
  
“I seem to recall said flautist left a toll half-paid…”  
  
“Jesper!” Wylan said, glancing at Inej and Marya, though neither seemed to mind.  
  
“What are the slippers for, Inej?” Marya asked.  
  
“Tightrope walking,” Inej replied, not missing a beat. “It was my act when I traveled with my parents.”  
  
“I’ve seen tightrope acts. It looks very high.”  
  
“It is,” Inej said, “but it’s really just walking. I first learned on a rope a few inches above the ground, so I wouldn’t be hurt if I fell.”  
  
“How long have you been in Kerch?”  
  
“Just a couple of years. We traveled in Ravka.”  
  
“You’ve certainly picked up the language. Your Kerch is barely accented.”  
  
“Oh, thank you…”  
  
Wylan kept aware of the conversation and of Inej. His mother was displaying the social skills expected of a merchant’s wife, but it seemed genuine enough. Still, he worried about any questions of too personal a nature, and was prepared to jump in if necessary.  
  
He did jump.  
  
Just not the way he expected.  
  
Something unexpectedly touched his leg and Wylan nearly leapt out of his chair in surprise.  
  
“Are you all right?”  
  
“Mm—fine, Mama. I, um, just bit my tongue. Inej, what was that you were saying, about Ravkan cakes?”  
  
Inej gave him a look that said she knew he was changing the subject, but went along anyway: “Orange cakes. There’s nothing like them here, I’ve looked and looked…”  
  
This time Wylan didn’t jump when he once more felt a gentle pressure against his leg. His eyes widened, though, as Jesper’s foot traveled slowly north, above Wylan’s knee…  
  
Wylan coughed and gulped his water.   
  
He didn’t want to do anything to distract his mother. She seemed to be enjoying her discussion with Inej, Wylan noted with a twinge of jealousy—why couldn’t he have a conversation like that with his own mother? Instead of saying something or maybe chucking his napkin in Jesper’s face, Wylan slipped a hand below the table and set it, gently but firmly, on Jesper’s foot. Jesper stopped kneading his foot against Wylan’s thigh, but he didn’t pull away and Wylan didn’t push him.   
  
At least not until he needed both hands to pour himself a glass of wine.  
  
That drew more than one stare.  
  
“Um, if I may, Mama?” Wylan asked.  
  
Marya hesitated. “Half,” she said.  
  
Wylan nodded and poured half a glass. He gave another look at Inej—now she was the only one not drinking. She didn’t seem to mind, however.  
  
“I thought you didn’t like alcohol,” Jesper said.  
  
“I’m—getting used to the taste,” Wylan explained with a sheepish glance at Jesper.  
  
He quickly found that the ghost of a taste on his boyfriend’s lips was not quite the same as a mouthful of fermented fruit juice. In fact, this had been a terrible idea, something Wylan realized just about the time the stuff was coating his tongue, enveloping him in… that! His throat closed against the thought of swallowing.  
  
“Wylan… are you stuck?” Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan shook his head. No, absolutely not! The sloshing wine in his mouth said otherwise.  
  
Inej couldn’t quite smother her giggle. Wylan couldn’t help it—as soon as she started laughing, he would do anything, even hold this burn-tasting stuff in his mouth. It wasn’t like he had an option, anyway! He wasn’t going to spit it out in front of his mother, and his throat was refusing.  
  
“It’s fine if you don’t like it, sweetheart,” Marya said.  
  
_Thank you, Mama._  
  
“You really can’t swallow?” Jesper asked.  
  
“Jesper,” Inej warned gently.  
  
It didn’t stop him.  
  
“Is this an indicator of—”  
  
Wylan kicked him.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“You deserved that,” Inej said.  
  
Wylan whimpered, managing tiny swallows of wine. It burned as awkwardly in his throat as it had in his mouth and he didn’t like it all the way down.  
  
“I’ll help you out with the rest,” Jesper said, taking a sip from Wylan’s glass.  
  
“You okay, Wylan?”  
  
“Yes, thank you,” he told Inej.   
  
“I don’t like the taste, either.”  
  
“How would you know that?” Jesper asked. “You’ve never tried it!”  
  
Inej wrinkled her nose. “The smell is enough.”  
  
Though Inej and Jesper stayed up after dinner, Wylan begged off about an early morning. He would see his mother to bed, then get some sleep himself.  
  
Wylan had made it to the tailor’s, but had yet to have any luck getting a dressmaker to come visit his mother. She only had the clothes from the asylum that buttoned at the back. He wondered how many people tried to remove their clothing before that policy was implemented. It was a strange thing to do, but maybe, if you had nothing else, if every other shred of agency was taken from you, a person might decide to take off their clothes simply because they _could_.  
  
That night, he combed out his mother’s hair for her. Even short curls could become matted and tangled—he knew that very well.  
  
“I’m sorry about dinner, Mama,” Wylan said softly. “I… we… um…”  
  
He didn’t know how to explain this. They had just got carried away with a few jokes, but, if there had any been doubts lingering, Inej and Jesper were _not_ the friends his parents wanted.  
  
“No,” Marya said, “you’re a special boy. I’m glad you have good friends.”  
  
“The best. They…”  
  
He wanted to tell her the truth, but—he couldn’t. It was too much and not fair to ask her to carry. What if she blamed herself, the way he blamed himself for what happened to her?  
  
“I know they’re not exactly our class of people, but that’s not everything.”  
  
The words hit something cold in Wylan. He knew men like his father wouldn’t approve of Jesper and Inej, whose families were without wealth and standing. He had heard the same, albeit kindly put, from Radmakkar. Somehow, with his mama chatting with them and smiling with them, he had allowed himself to believe she was different.  
  
“Does… that matter to you?” Wylan asked, suddenly very focused on how the comb worked through her hair. He didn’t want to hurt her….  
  
He knew that he had earned Jesper and Inej’s friendship. Coming from money hadn’t meant a damn thing in the real world, not like being clever, skillful, quick, good. What if it mattered to his mother? She had been locked away for so long, but she was still a merchant.  
  
“I like to see you happy,” she said, which was an unsatisfactory answer, really, but Wylan didn’t want to stress her. This had been one of her longest periods of coherency since coming home. He didn’t want to endanger that.  
  
He finished with her hair and unbuttoned the back of her dress.  
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Mama.”  
  
“Good night.”  
  
He kissed her cheek. That awkward feeling still surged in his belly, and he wished it would quit. She was home. She was home and safe and getting better and—and that ought to be enough.  
  
In the master bedroom, the one that was starting to feeling like it was his, Wylan laid out his clothes for tomorrow. He didn’t, normally, but it was a big day and he wanted to be prepared. He carefully removed a picture from his sketchbook, folded it into quarters, and slipped it into a pocket in Jesper’s trousers. Whether or not Jesper liked that, Wylan still wasn’t sure, but he liked leaving him gifts. He hoped the intention was clear.  
  
Still—he resolved to think of something a bit better than sketches. Maybe he could ask Inej or his mama to write something. Maybe if he traced it enough, he could learn to write it for himself. Maybe…  
  
Wylan shook his head. He couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t, not even for Jesper.   
  
He cleaned his teeth and, finally, crawled into bed. It had been such a long day, one in a series of long days. His head was spinning from all of it—the rye fields, his mother, a shipping contract that needed his attention, the designs he hadn’t worked on in a day at least, Jesper…  
  
He tried to stay awake, waiting for Jesper, but Wylan only made it to a brief, adrenaline-spiked thought about… about something—there was definitely _something_ he needed to do… but before he could remember what, the thimble of adrenaline faded and he was fast asleep.


	25. Calculated Risks

Wylan took a breath and straightened his tie. Too tight. He loosened the knot—now he looked casual. He couldn’t look casual. He already looked _young_ , too young; he needed his clothes to be professional, to say _I am an adult_.  
  
But while he knew how to tie the tie, he couldn’t figure out how where it went. He tried to remember how high Kaz wore the knot on his ties. Kaz always looked well put together. Wylan resettled his tie. Checked the mirror.  
  
Close enough.  
  
He buttoned his steel grey waistcoat and his matching jacket, took a breath, and turned away from the mirror. He picked up his satchel. It was beaten and stained, but he hadn’t prioritized obtaining a new one. Mentally, he added it to his to-do list. He could have left it, but the satchel contained a few… extras. After the auction and Kuwei’s ‘death’, the kherguud attacks had stopped in Ketterdam, aided by a meeting between the Shu and the Merchant Council, but Wylan liked to carry a few of his lumiya bombs just in case.  
  
“You ready?”  
  
Jesper looked up. He was sprawled against the bed, leafing through a book he told Wylan was bloody violent. Wylan didn’t want Jesper to have to do this today. If he could, he would have taken the meeting with Breen alone—but he needed documents read. He needed Jesper.  
  
Jesper set the book aside.  
  
Wylan extended his hand.  
  
“I don’t need you to hold my hand,” Jesper said.  
  
“I know. I’m just a little nervous today.”  
  
They walked to the Exchange quietly, their fingers wound together.  
  
Both were on edge this morning. In what had previously been Jan Van Eck’s office at the Exchange, Wylan tidied. It was mostly tidy. He just made a few small changes. Lined up the pens.  
  
Jesper wasn’t faring much better. His fingers drummed on his revolvers, faster and faster, until he leapt out of his seat and strode across the room. He leafed through a sheaf of papers. Wylan understood. He was as nervous himself, though more concerned about his mother than the coming meeting—he hadn’t been so far from her since she came home.  
  
“Jes,” Wylan said.  
  
He knew when Jesper had reached his limit and held out a flask.  
  
“Saints, thank you!” Jesper sighed. He took the flask, then hesitated. He probably hadn’t expected the metal to feel warm. “What is this?”  
  
“Coffee.”  
  
“ _Coffee._ ”  
  
“It calms you down.”  
  
Wylan had noticed that Jesper fidgeted less after having coffee. He also noticed the look on Jesper’s face, making clear that he had been hoping for alcohol. Wylan wasn’t comfortable crossing that line. Already they were in his father’s office at the Exchange, Wylan struggling not to fidget in his good suit, Jesper dressed like he’d just sauntered in from the Barrel. Under any other circumstances, Wylan would have asked why someone thought green and white houndstooth was a good idea. Under other circumstances. But somehow the pattern looked good on Jesper, he reflected, allowing his eyes to wander. Of course, everything looked good on Jesper, but—  
  
Wylan forced his eyes away. Not the right time!  
  
Inej had given them information about Elias Breen. Previously near-unknown, he had grabbed power among the Black Tips in the recent upheaval—with Pekka Rollins and Per Haskell both ousted, things were roiling in the Barrel. It seemed that buying up Jesper’s debts had almost certainly been intended to get leverage against Kaz.  
  
Wylan hadn’t repeated that last part. Jesper knew his gambling had been out of control and hurt people he cared about. Shaming him with the ghosts of past mistakes would only damage his efforts to stop. And it would hurt him. He had made mistakes, yes, but he had taken enough hurt in return.  
  
Jesper drank the last of the coffee. “Maybe I should head down to check on the stocks—we’ve still got those stocks in sugar, could see how they’re doing.”  
  
“I need you here,” Wylan replied. He wasn’t entirely comfortable telling Jesper what he could and could not do, but that was precisely what he was saying now—no. No, you may not check the stocks.  
  
He needed Jesper to ensure the papers were in order.  
  
If anything, Wylan _wanted_ Jesper gone for this exchange, to protect him from the shame of it and to keep him from the minds of Breen’s men. Better the Black Tips should see this as a debt to settle with some mercher’s brat than a brilliant sharpshooter known to run with gangs. They wouldn’t want Wylan. A deeper, more shameful part of Wylan was afraid Jesper would change his mind if he met with the Black Tips. He wasn’t getting the fun he was used to, not anymore, and Wylan’s deepest fear right now was that Jesper would remember gang life and go with them.  
  
“They’ll be here soon,” Wylan promised both of them. “It’ll be over and you can move on.” And he could go home to check on his mother.  
  
Jesper laughed hollowly.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Wylan extended an arm, inviting, and Jesper came over to hug him.  
  
“It’ll be okay,” Wylan said. “We have each other. That’s what matters.”  
  
“Your money doesn’t hurt.”  
  
True as it was, he wished Jesper wouldn’t say that. Money didn’t make everything better. Hearing that reminded Wylan of the useless, spoiled kid he had been just a few months ago.  
  
Rather than say that, he said, “It would if I threw it at you.”  
  
Jesper scoffed. “I’ve seen you throw.”  
  
“Shut up,” Wylan replied, chuckling despite himself.  
  
“Make me,” Jesper murmured.  
  
Wylan gave him a quick, chaste kiss.  
  
“Later,” he promised.  
  
Much as Wylan liked the idea of giving Jesper more than one small kiss, they had a meeting soon with a group of gang members. It was already clear they saw Jesper as a potential asset. Wylan needed them to see him as a significant obstacle—or at least a significant frustration, not worth the trouble. Looking like a lovestruck teenager wouldn’t help.  
  
Instead, he scanned the papers on the desk.  
  
“I was thinking—the printing press does well with the hymnals, but what if we expanded into pulps? You know, like romances and those murder sorts of books that are so popular.”  
  
Jesper gave him a look and Wylan knew exactly what it meant. _Not to be a podge, but how do **you** know what books are popular? _He listened. He was illiterate, not unaware.  
  
“You think they’d still want the hymnals printed?”  
  
“Would that matter to them?”  
  
Jesper rolled his eyes. “No one wants their hymnal from the murder blowjob company.”  
  
Wylan’s response was a strangled noise as he looked around like someone might have magically appeared in the office just to hear that remark.  
  
“We’re not—that’s not—that’s what’s in those books?!”  
  
“Murder? Obviously.”  
  
“Not murder! The… the other thing!”  
  
“What did you think it was? Kissing?”  
  
Wylan blushed hotly, because that was _exactly_ what he thought the books were about. Books had always been described to him in such soaring rhetoric, even when he saw Alys pink-cheeked and giggling at a novel, he didn’t imagine there might be such… untoward content!  
  
“I think we’d make more off the pulp fiction anyway. Seems like a safe enough venture,” Wylan reasoned, turning the conversation back to business. Safe, clean business.  
  
He wished he hadn’t mentioned this. He had thought he understood about books, at least understood enough for that brief conversation—but he didn’t, and he felt dumb and small again, and it was his own fault. He was aware of Jesper there, aware of his uncertainty, and wanted to apologize, but he knew that wouldn’t make anything better.  
  
“Yeah,” Jesper said, “that sounds good, Wy.” He was subdued at first, but couldn’t hide his amusement as he continued, “We’ll be the Van Eck-Fahey Stabbings and Pleasure Publishing House!”  
  
Wylan fought to keep from snickering. “I don’t think your da wants his name on that!”  
  
“And your mother does? What a horrible thing to say about your own _mother_!”  
  
“You leave Mama out of this, she’s a Hendriks!”  
  
“Oh, you started this, Wylan.”  
  
“I did not!” Wylan objected.  
  
But… hadn’t he? He was the one who started talking about expanding into printing pulp novels, he was the one who mentioned parents…  
  
Jesper must have seen realization dawn on Wylan, because he started to laugh.  
  
Wylan shoved him, only half meaning it, unable to keep from laughter himself.  
  
“Is that any way to treat your business partner?” Jesper asked.  
  
“I thought you were my secretary.”  
  
“Business partner slash secretary slash boyfriend, I’m a man of many talents.”  
  
“Ghezen…”  
  
“Wylan.” Jesper put his hands on Wylan’s shoulders and said, very seriously, “Wylan, look at me. You need to pull yourself together. We have an important meeting and you’re seriously endangering the Van Eck-Fahey Publishing House.”  
  
He didn’t say the full name of the publishing house, but they were both thinking it, falling on each other laughing.  
  
Wylan admired Jesper’s ability to be so cool and light-hearted at a time like this. If they were waiting to pay off his debts, he probably would have gnawed his thumb to the bone by now. Not Jesper. He was making jokes, keeping Wylan on task…  
  
Wylan brushed Jesper’s cheek with his knuckles.  
  
“What did I do to deserve you?”  
  
Jesper kissed his nose.  
  
It was about the most sweet, ridiculous, endearing thing he could have done, and Wylan felt a warm, soft flush of love. This wasn’t just want—he was quite certain he was in love with this boy.  
  
A harsh knock at the door interrupted. With a look of misery, Jesper and Wylan stepped away from each other.  
  
“Come in,” Wylan called.  
  
Into the office stepped a man with a pointed, weasel-like face. His dark hair was cropped short and his beard had recently been neatly trimmed but had grown past the neatness. He was dressed in maroon plaid and a bright blue waistcoat.  
  
Behind him were two men Wylan immediately recognized as the muscle. They were not subtle, chosen as the biggest, ugliest, toughest-looking bastards a man could find.  
  
He wanted to move closer to Jesper. His stomach felt trembling and cold—Wylan was scared. But he knew what would happen if he showed weakness. Instead he raised his chin like he was facing his father and said, “Elias Breen himself, I presume.”  
  
“And little Wylan Van Eck.”  
  
Wylan had not even looked at Jesper yet. He saw that he was being weighed and measured. He did not have the option of being friendly now, even if he wanted to. The world would be great if everyone just treated one another kindly, with respect… but Elias Breen was trying to strong-arm Wylan’s boyfriend. And Wylan Van Eck would not stand for that sort of business.  
  
“'Wylan' will be fine, Elias,” he said.  
  
_Just pretend you’re talking to Kaz._  
  
“You brought the necessary documents?”  
  
He hadn’t said ‘what business’ to open the meeting. That was an intentional slight.  
  
Wylan glanced at Jesper now. He was tense, his shoulders drawn in and none of his usual humor on his face. Silently, Wylan promised himself that he would make this better for Jesper. They would take care of the debts first. Then… Wylan wished he were the Jesper of this relationship, the one who knew how to make his partner feel happy and loved and safe. But he wasn’t. He was the Wylan—the one squashing down the word ‘massage’ because he didn’t know if he could say it, even think it too long without blushing. And how did that thought cause a stirring further down? How much blood did his body have?!  
  
With forced seriousness and a nod to Jesper, Wylan asked, “Is everything in order?”  
  
He couldn’t say, _It’s okay, Jes,_ but hoped Jesper felt it from how Wylan looked at him.  
  
Jesper looked through the papers.  
  
“This is off,” Jesper reported. “We gave you 200 kruge last week.”  
  
“Consider it a service fee,” Breen suggested, “for coming all the way up here to collect.”  
  
With a haughtiness he hoped approached that of his father, Wylan said, “A century of Kerch lineage, and two months ago no one knew your name. I should have sent a check—I’m doing you a favor meeting with you.”  
  
Breen chuckled. “You’ve got a mouth, kid,” he observed, reaching out to pat Wylan’s face. Wylan narrowed his eyes—he didn’t like this.  
  
Jesper caught Breen’s wrist. “Ah, ah, ah…”  
  
A sudden, hot feeling cut through Wylan’s anxiety. He _should_ be anxious. He _should_ be nervous here, surrounded by gangsters, standing in the Exchange like a businessman, in over his head… but Ghezen and all his works, Jesper was sexy. Jesper was always sexy, but Jesper being protective and getting physical like that— _Ghezen._  
  
One of Breen’s seconds stepped forward and the previous feeling mostly disappeared. Wylan had a brief, panicked moment of hope that Inej was here somewhere, because if it came to a fight between Jesper, Wylan, and three Black Tips—or rather, between Jesper and three Black Tips…  
  
“No,” Breen said. Jesper released his arm, and the smile Breen offered the boys was deeply unsettling. “No need to come to blows here, lads. We’ll settle this like proper businessmen.” He made a few marks on one of the pages as he added, “This scrap of a mercher isn’t worth crossing Brekker. There we are. The debt, minus 200 from the other day.”  
  
Jesper reviewed the paper, then nodded. “It’s fair,” he reported.  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
He counted out the cash, ensuring that Breen saw each bill, and had nothing to dispute. Jesper stood beside him, stroking his revolvers. Sacred Ghezen, his hands were beautiful. Those guns—his hands on those guns…  
  
Wylan focused on counting.  
  
When he was done, he scooped the bills into a neat stack, then signed the agreement.  
  
He offered the pen to Breen.  
  
This was it. All that needed to happen was for Breen to take the pen and sign his name. Take the cash. _Go_. He would walk out and close the door on a painful chapter in Jesper’s life. He would walk out and Wylan could turn his attention to soothing Jesper’s hurt.  
  
Breen reached for the pen, then hesitated. Jesper twitched, hands cradling the revolvers.  
  
“Easy,” one of Breen’s seconds growled.  
  
He looked far too close to starting a fight.  
  
“Jes,” Wylan murmured.  
  
He knew Breen was trying to raise the tension as much as possible, was playing for power, and Jesper was especially susceptible to it. Wylan didn’t like Breen playing on his boyfriend’s weaknesses—it was unnecessary, and it was cruel. It was how things worked in the Barrel.  
  
Wylan didn’t like that part of the Barrel.  
  
He reached out with his free hand to touch Jesper’s arm and was surprised when Jesper jerked away from him.  
  
Breen chuckled. “Trouble in paradise, boys?”  
  
“You saw me count the debt,” Wylan said, “sacred is Ghezen.”  
  
The challenge was clear enough. Was Elias Breen challenging Wylan Van Eck on his faith? He wouldn’t be wrong, Wylan had found of late that he was questioning and abandoning his faith, but it would be unnecessarily rude and petty to say as much.  
  
Breen made a show of taking out his pocket watch and checking it. “I have other places to be.”  
  
He took the pen, signed his name, and took the cash.  
  
“A pleasure, Wylan.” Breen glanced at Jesper, then back to Wylan. “I’m sure we’ll be doing this again.”  
  
Jesper jolted forward. One of Breen’s seconds did the same.  
  
“Jesper, don’t!” Wylan said, taking his arm. “That’s enough. Elias and his friends were just leaving.”  
  
Breen tipped his hat and turned to go.  
  
Wylan didn’t let go of Jesper’s arm until the door was closed behind the Black Tips. When they were gone, Jesper pulled away roughly.  
  
“Jes.”  
  
Jesper shook his head.  
  
Wylan gnawed his thumb. This wasn’t how he was supposed to feel. He was supposed to be… relieved. The debt was paid. They didn’t need to worry about it any more, the Black Tips didn’t have any sway over Jesper. And, all things considered, it had gone pretty well. Hadn’t it? They basically held their ground. Right?  
  
He took his thumb out of his mouth.  
  
“He’s just a worthless podge.”  
  
“You know I’ve been curious about the stocks, I think I’ll go look into that now,” Jesper muttered.  
  
Wylan had really thought he would be relieved.  
  
“I’ll wait for you, we can head home together.”  
  
Jesper probably heard the meaning there, but Wylan wasn’t sure what else to do: he didn’t want Jesper to go and gamble.  
  
After he left, Wylan sighed softly.  
  
He thought he was _helping_. He didn’t have the personal things to offer that Jesper did. He didn’t have that magic. Maybe it felt like he was trying to buy love, but Wylan tried not to seem that way. It was why he liked giving Jesper his drawings, why he liked trading cuddles and pets even if he was still learning to be good at it.  
  
He had felt good being here with Jesper. Now he felt determinedly _without_ Jesper, he felt worried about his mother. He felt… miserable.  
  
That was what being a man meant.  
  
Right?  
  
Alone, Wylan unbuttoned his cuff and let his sleeve fall back. Bruises patterned his forearms. He examined them in the sunlight. The colors were ugly, there were no two ways about that, but he liked them. He liked them because they were his own.  
  
“Who did it?”  
  
At the gravely rasp, Wylan looked to the doorway. He shouldn’t have been surprised—because nothing about Kaz should surprise him. Kaz, Wylan knew, could do anything, go anywhere. Sometimes he wondered about the theft of the DeKappel—had he been in the house at the time? Had he been asleep? How close had he been to two then-strangers, two people who would become some of the most important in his life?  
  
Yet… somehow… Kaz’s presence was still surprising.  
  
And Ghezen’s ledger, Wylan was glad to see his face. He didn’t realize how much he had missed the older boy until he was suppressing the urge to give him a huge grin.  
  
“It’s not how it looks, Kaz.”  
  
He looked well. He carried his crow’s head cane, but he wasn’t leaning on it; his leg must not be bothering him too badly today. He wore his usual mercher black. Maybe it was the dishevelment that settled over all of them that week on Black Veil, but Wylan had forgotten how well Kaz wore a businessman’s suit. He noted the positioning of Kaz’s tie for future reference.  
  
“ _Who did it._ ”  
  
The tone lanced through him. Utterly bone-chilling, the way Kaz showed that he cared.  
  
Wylan smoothed down his sleeve and buttoned it, hiding the bruises.  
  
“You know I have a household guard—”  
  
“I’m not certain that’s what a household guard is supposed to do, Wylan.”  
  
“I asked them to teach me to fight.”  
  
Kaz considered that for a moment, then gave a slow nod. His approval mattered more than Wylan would have liked.  
  
“Jesper’s doing well.”  
  
Kaz’s eyes hardened. “How’s the business?”  
  
“It’s—it’s going well.”  
  
“I hear you’re truly a man of Ghezen, forcing a ship to dock during the plague and making quite the profit.”  
  
“Sacred is Ghezen and in commerce we see his hand, Brekker.”  
  
Wylan forced himself to meet Kaz’s gaze steadily. He didn’t like being seen that way, but he knew he needed it. He needed the reputation.  
  
There were too many uncommon people in his life.  
  
His half-mad mother.  
  
His sharpshooter boyfriend.  
  
His would-be sankta friend.  
  
And the only way, the _only_ _way_ he could protect them all, was a strong reputation.  
  
Was that—was that another nod? No, Kaz was just stepping forward into the office.  
  
“I know your business, Wylan,” Kaz said. “It’s massive. You’re ready for something, but this…” He gestured broadly around the office. “This is more than you’re ready for.”  
  
Wylan let on that he disliked that, but not how much it stung. Anyway… it was true. The business was sprawling; Wylan knew most of the moving parts, but there were pieces he was still learning. He was doing his best—doing well. He and Jesper both were.  
  
It still stung to hear from Kaz.  
  
No, Wylan reminded himself. Kaz didn’t do this—Kaz wouldn’t say something hurtful just to hurt him. If Kaz said something hurtful, it was because he wanted something from Wylan.  
  
He didn’t need to do that. Whatever it was, Wylan wanted to help. Asking wasn’t the Kaz Brekker way, though. Kaz came to see Wylan here at the Exchange, which meant he really wanted something related to the business.  
  
“I can help,” Kaz said, getting to the point. “The Van Eck empire doesn’t even take good care of its ships. You lose one out of five. I’ll take one off your hands, even give you a good price.”  
  
He named the ship he wanted, and the price he would pay.  
  
Wylan knew exactly which ship it was. Knew the specs, anyway. Knew the value. Knew Kaz wasn’t asking him for a ship designed to carry cargo.  
  
“Building an empire of your own?” Wylan asked.  
  
“You don’t need to know the reason. Just business, merchling.”  
  
“I need to know the reason if I’m part of that business.”  
  
A warship for Kaz Brekker?  
  
“No one innocent will be hurt. You can rest easy in your soft mercher bed—”  
  
“I will, there’s a very handsome sharpshooter in my bed.”  
  
Kaz raised his eyebrows. Wylan clenched his jaw to keep from grinning. That was as good as a hot blush and a stammer from Kaz Brekker!  
  
Kaz repeated his price. It was about half the ship’s worth. Was he sounding Wylan out? He couldn’t have expected Wylan to agree… could he? Wylan wouldn’t have minded, really. He did have quite a lot of ships and he owed Kaz everything. Without Kaz, Wylan would never have inherited the company, or lived to see his sixteenth birthday.  
  
Without Kaz, Wylan would have died never having had a friend.  
  
Without Kaz, Wylan wouldn’t have met Jesper.  
  
But since he had come here, since he had approached this as a business meeting—  
  
Wylan countered with too high a price.  
  
Kaz returned by marginally raising his offer.  
  
They went back and forth for a bit, until finally agreeing on a sum; Kaz was getting the ship at about nine-tenths its value.  
  
“You own a few berths, as well, don’t you?”  
  
Wylan couldn’t hide his surprise, but supposed he should have known. “I do.”  
  
“Good. I want one. I want her to come home.”  
  
_Her._  
  
This was for Inej?  
  
All those books about ships, the knots she practiced, the endless questions for the sailors, it was no secret Inej wanted a ship. But that Kaz had decided to get her one… Wylan knew immediately that Kaz had chosen the right ship, not because Wylan was especially knowledgeable about sailing but because he was knowledgeable about Kaz. Kaz would have done his due diligence and then some.  
  
And, frankly, if he had been direct from the beginning Wylan would have given him the ship a good deal cheaper. With Kaz, Wylan would deal fairly. For Inej…  
  
“One word to her and I’ll rip your tongue out of your head,” Kaz spat.  
  
He could have just said it was a surprise.  
  
“I won’t say anything,” Wylan promised.  
  
“No, you won’t. Now about that berth.”  
  
Nothing could be finalized without Jesper to read the papers to Wylan, and Wylan knew Kaz wasn’t ready to see him. He was scarcely going to take the word of the Bastard of the Barrel—not that Wylan expected Kaz to swindle him, but to plant the seeds of his next scheme, perhaps, or to test him.  
  
As Kaz turn to go, Wylan said, in a place of utter neutrality where his better judgment didn’t know if this was a good or bad idea, “Next month is my birthday—”  
  
“That’s not special. Everyone has a birthday.”  
  
“The twelfth. Dinner’s at seven bells. There’s always a place for you at my table, but I’m extending an official invitation this time.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
“I think it’s too late for that.”  
  
Kaz gave a repulsed sigh and shook his head.  
  
Wylan didn’t take that as a no.  
  
“I don’t know why you treated him the way you did, but Jesper still cares for you.”  
  
“I never treated Jesper any differently from how I treated anyone else.”  
  
“Yes,” Wylan said, “you did.” And Kaz knew that, because he wasn’t an idiot. “You were cruel to him.”  
  
“I’m cruel to everyone.”  
  
“When I was useless as anything but a hostage, you were kinder to me.”  
  
“I didn’t care about you. Didn’t I threaten to cut your tongue out?”  
  
“Multiple times,” Wylan acknowledged, without a shred of fear in his voice. He had been scared then. Even though it had only been a few weeks ago, Wylan didn’t feel that fear anymore, he didn’t feel like the person who experienced that fear. “You shut me up when I ran my mouth to you, Kaz. You hurt Jesper just because he’s Jesper. You brought up his gambling all the time. Why? He was loyal to you. He cared about you. You hurt him just because you could, you—”  
  
“Maybe you can give Jesper what I couldn’t,” Kaz snapped, his voice hard at the edges. Wylan forced himself not to flinch or look away. _He was right._ He knew he was. “But I kept him alive. I gave him every chance to change his mind. He could have come back to the Slat instead of heading for the tables, but I don’t hold hands and wipe noses. Why are you inviting me to your birthday party if you think I’ll just show up and make your boyfriend cry?”  
  
_He could have come back to the Slat._  
  
Wylan knew how Kaz had spoken to Jesper. Maybe, _maybe_ Jesper could have proved himself to Kaz’s satisfaction, but only by passing a thousand tiny, cutting tests. Only by ignoring what Kaz told him and guessing what Kaz truly wanted. Only by fighting tooth and nail for a fraction of what he deserved.  
  
Which was a hell of a lot more.  
  
“Jesper makes mistakes. We all do. He’s more than his worst.”  
  
“And—”  
  
“And so are you, Kaz. I… we think of you as a friend.”  
  
Kaz made a disgusted noise. “I don’t do birthday parties.”  
  
Wylan shrugged. “You eat. Eat with us.”  
  
Wylan wasn’t jealous. He hated the look on Jesper’s face when he thought about Kaz because he hated seeing Jesper hurt, and he knew inviting Kaz closer into their lives was a risk. But he believed in Jesper. Maybe, if Kaz could see what Wylan saw in him, Jesper wouldn’t have to lose a friend. Maybe having Wylan beside him would keep Jesper safe.  
  
Bombs and kruge and love. Everything Wylan had to give.  
  
Maybe being in their lives would help Kaz, too. Or maybe Kaz would laugh at him and walk out of the Exchange with a cruel smile on his face.  
  
To Wylan’s surprise, Kaz simply said, “You’re doing fine, Wylan.”  
  
And then he was gone.  
  
Wylan was still mildly stunned when Jesper returned.  
  
“The stocks were up and there was a bakery across the… street… is everything okay?”  
  
“Um—yeah,” Wylan said, shaking himself. “Yeah, everything’s great.”  
  
He wanted to say something about what happened earlier, but he didn’t know what to say, and Jesper had bled out his stress. Wylan didn’t want to reverse that progress. He didn’t think he could say the right thing about it.  
  
So he said, “The stocks are up?”  
  
“Pretty consistently, but we knew that was coming for the sugar. I’m more interested in what’s going on with silk. Like I was saying, there’s a bakery across the street,” Jesper concluding, setting a paper bag on the edge of Wylan’s desk.  
  
Wylan had put a good deal of effort into his meticulousness with how things would look at the Exchange. Appearances counted for quite a lot with merchants. He extracted a pastry carefully and smiled.  
  
“You’re my favorite.”  
  
“Sorry about earlier,” Jesper muttered quickly. Then, back to his usual self, “About your favorite, are you talking to me or the pastry?”  
  
“The pastry, of course!” Wylan said. He appreciated the apology and he wanted to ask what he had done wrong so he knew for next time, but he wanted to move away from the awkwardness, too. “Favoritism’s subjective. You’re objectively the best. You were saying, about silk. Are we talking about stocks or fashion?”  
  
“Stocks.”  
  
Wylan nodded. The truth was, he didn’t have much knack for this sort of business, but was quite happy to listen to Jesper lay out his interpretation of events, the shifting stocks due to impacts of jurda parem on Shu Han. Wylan bit into his pastry as Jesper explained all of this. One thing he did not miss about the Barrel was the food. Fluffy pastries, sweet jam with just a hint of tartness—merchants knew how to eat.  
  
“…really looking to see how low it’s going to fall, because they’re sure to keep putting more and more resources into this, especially now they know Kuwei’s in Ravka—”  
  
“Do you think they know that?” Wylan asked, mildly alarmed. After everything they had done to smuggle the Shu boy safely out of the city—out of Fjerda! At least he was safe. The Ravkans would protect him… right?  
  
“It’s politics, sunshine, everyone spies on everyone.” Wylan’s face must have fallen some because Jesper continued, “My sweet, honest merchling! Politics is a dirty business. You’re not cut out for it.”  
  
Wylan did not appreciate that.  
  
He sighed. “I guess not,” he agreed. He set down the remaining half of his pastry. “Sorry, Jes, I didn’t mean to sidetrack you.”  
  
Jesper continued, and Wylan truly was listening.  
  
Truly.  
  
He just happened to _also_ be sucking at his fingertips to get the last smears of jam off. He just happened to notice that he’d got jam down to his knuckle. He just happened to feel it was a more thorough job if he turned his finger a bit—  
  
Jesper cleared his throat.  
  
“Is everything okay?” Wylan asked. He was all but batting his eyelashes.  
  
“Yes, yeah, great,” Jesper replied. He glanced behind him to make sure the door was shut. Then he strode over, placed his hands on Wylan’s hips and pulled him close. “Something you want to say?” he asked.  
  
Wylan grinned in what he hoped was a wicked way. He blushed, but he grinned. He was really working on this ‘suggestive’ stuff. Jesper was looking at him in a way Wylan could never capture no matter how well he learned to draw, a way he took as absolute approval.  
  
“Tell me again I’m not cut out for dirty business.”


	26. Asking for Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Physical and verbal abuse, intimidation (not graphic, but it is referenced)
> 
>  
> 
> I’m not thrilled with how this chapter turned out, and it does have a rather aggressive, “Welcome to the denouement!” vibe… but hopefully the Wesper flirting can make up for some of it!

Three days passed after the meeting in the Exchange. Three days, and Jesper had recovered the blow to his pride—Wylan helped by working on finding more opportunities to tell Jesper he was great, and by intentionally saying things that were easy set-ups for the sort of jokes that made him blush. He knew how much Jesper liked that.  
  
They were starting to find a rhythm to their life, though Wylan knew he was pushing himself too hard. He felt like he was constantly sipping a cup of coffee.  
  
Maybe he needed to stop spending the evenings with Jesper and Inej, he thought. It seemed like whatever they were doing, whether it was games or music or anything else, the slightest thing became the most wonderful game with friends—which was problematic, because he stayed awake well past the point he felt exhausted.  
  
But he only really _knew_ he’d have time for fun after his mama went to bed. And he wanted to have fun. He liked fun. He liked his friends.  
  
He didn’t _want_ to give up his evenings with his friends!  
  
It was the exhaustion, Wylan told himself. He was just tired, and it made him more vulnerable, and that was why he was currently sitting on the floor in his old bedroom, his back against the wall, fingers resting on the loose floorboards. Familiar old spot for a familiar old feeling.  
  
“Wy!”  
  
Wylan sat up straighter; he was scrambling to his feet as Jesper stepped into the room.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Wylan asked.  
  
_Something_ was wrong. Jesper was twitching his fingers around his revolvers. He still wore them every day, despite the fact he hadn’t fired them since the Church of Barter. Perhaps he needed to. Wylan made a note to find an opportunity for Jesper to shoot—he doubted skeet would do it, the only sort of shooting merchants were likely to do, but Wylan would think of something.  
  
He resolved he would. He promised them both.  
  
Jesper shook his head, though something clearly was wrong. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. He wouldn’t have his lips pressed together like that—Jesper was many things, but he was rarely _quiet_.  
  
“I, um,” Jesper began. Then he shrugged and scuffed his feet on the floor.  
  
“Okay,” Wylan said. He wasn’t sure what he was meant to do here and licked his lips nervously. He was aware that Jesper needed him, though. “Okay, c’mere.”  
  
He motioned him over and hugged him. It wasn’t the best hug. Wylan went up on tiptoe, but he was smaller than Jesper, he couldn’t do the good sort of hug that wrapped up a person entirely and made them feel safe and protected. He did his best, though, and felt Jesper’s breathing steady.  
  
“Can you take a deep breath?”  
  
He felt Jesper’s attempt—and it wasn’t quite deep, but it was a breath.  
  
“Again.”  
  
He did.  
  
“Feeling better?”  
  
Jesper nodded.  
  
“Is there anything I can do?”  
  
“Distract me,” Jesper said. “Give me something else. What were you doing?”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “I was just thinking about… about things.”  
  
“What things? I need something to get my mind off this feeling, Wy.”  
  
Wylan took a deep breath. He didn’t want to talk about it, he didn’t want to admit that he had failed. That he had come into this room because he felt small and this was a good place for feeling small.  
  
But… Jesper was coming to him instead of anything else, instead of going to the tables.  
  
Jesper was asking for his help.  
  
So Wylan did the same thing. He admitted to needing help.  
  
“I can’t take care of her by myself. I need to hire someone to help look after Mama.”  
  
“Did something happen?”  
  
Wylan nodded. He didn’t volunteer any details. He saw Jesper wondering, saw the moment he decided not to ask, just to nod in return.

* * *

  
  
Neither Jesper nor Wylan knew where Inej went each day, and they didn’t ask. She was building something of her own. They respected that. Whenever they discussed her, Wylan saw a look in Jesper’s face he knew was reflected in his own. They admired her.  
  
That night, Jesper left a note on Inej’s pillow.  
  
_Inej – Wy & I need to talk to you, please meet us in the office. We’ll wait up. XO, J_  
  
Wylan kept shooting awkward glances at his father’s throne-like desk chair. And at the chairs opposite. Nothing looked especially sinister. There was a perhaps egotistical seat and two business-acceptable ones, but…  
  
“Hey. Come back to me.”  
  
Wylan shook himself and gave Jesper a quick hug. “Hey.”  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?”  
  
Wylan shrugged. “It wasn’t big.”  
  
Besides, Jesper needed him to be here, to be present. Wylan mentally pinched himself. _Jesper needed him to be here_ , and that should be bigger than his fear.  
  
“Big enough to take you away.”  
  
“He just—liked me to—he was paying for the tutors, he wanted to see where his money was going. He didn’t _always…_ but enough that I knew he could, enough that I was scared when he stood over my shoulder. I wanted to read, you know that, right?”  
  
“I know, gorgeous.”  
  
“ _At least you are punctual for my weekly disappointment._ ”  
  
Jesper moved closer, put a hand on Wylan’s shoulder. There was something tentative in his touch—a precursor, Wylan realized, a readiness to pull him closer if he should need it.  
  
“He only said that once,” Wylan added.  
  
_One word, just one word—this one, what does that one say?  
  
I’m sorry—  
  
What does it say, Wylan?  
  
I’m sorry, Father, I’ll do better next time._  
  
Wylan swallowed, trying to pull his heartrate down to something more—reasonable. Normal.  
  
Meeting Inej here had been his idea. He would need to use the office eventually and he felt safer with Inej and Jesper than he ever had before. He was asking their help, albeit with a secondary purpose for the meeting.  
  
“I was scared here so many times when I was a kid.”  
  
He didn’t know how men like his father did that, told him to be afraid with barely a shift in tone. In music, he understood. It was like how irregular, non-linear sounds, or music higher or lower than a certain pitch range, evoked distress. Wylan had never especially liked that sort of music. If he was going to play something acoustically unexpected, he would rather it be something with quick, short, high notes—something playful. But he understood how to make music distressing. Voices, not so much.  
  
Wylan thought about that as he let his fingertips wander along the edge of the desk. Sound. He could read sound—musical sounds, could read pitch and tempo. Why couldn’t he read words?  
  
“He was here,” he added softly. It was hard to remember, but Jesper deserved to know some of this story.  
  
“Your father.”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “Prior. The hostler.”  
  
Jesper had made himself a part of this story. He deserved to know other parts of it.  
  
“You deserved a better father. One who could see how brilliant you are.”  
  
Wylan made a non-committal noise.  
  
“Tell me how brilliant you are.”  
  
“Jes…”  
  
“Nope,” Jesper replied. He half-sat, half-fell in one of the chairs and set his hands on Wylan’s waist to pull him closer and _Ghezen_ Wylan liked when he did that. “Tell me how brilliant you are,” he repeated.  
  
Wylan felt a slow blush crawling up his face. These were the worst; slow to start, slower to fade!  
  
“C’mon, Jes.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
“I’m—I’m smart,” he said quickly.  
  
It wasn’t that Wylan still thought he was stupid. He knew he wasn’t stupid. He was good at math and chemistry, and he had a knack for putting pieces together. That wasn’t stupid. He just wasn’t comfortable talking like that.  
  
“Was that the word I used?”  
  
Apparently Jesper was determined tonight.  
  
“But…” Wylan objected, fighting the urge to squirm.  
  
“Wylan…”  
  
“Jesper…”  
  
Jesper was not amused.  
  
“You know, this is a good position for something besides arguing,” Wylan pointed out.  
  
He leaned in for a kiss, but Jesper leaned back.  
  
“Really?” Wylan asked, incredulous. Since when did Jesper say no to kissing?!  
  
“Really,” Jesper said. “You’re on full Jesper embargo until you say it.”  
  
Wylan tried to call his bluff, but Jesper moved back until he wasn’t so much sitting in the chair as lying half-over it and pushing him any farther seemed dangerous. A part of Wylan noticed that he didn’t feel rejected, though. He knew Jesper was playing. He even thought about trying to flirt Jesper into kissing him _without_ saying it, but knew that was a game he could not win.  
  
“I’m brilliant,” Wylan whispered.  
  
There was no point fighting with Jesper over this. He was in one of his stubborn moods. It was nice, even if Wylan wasn’t entirely comfortable with saying so. It was nice that Jesper treated Wylan’s confidence as this important.  
  
“Doing better.”  
  
“I said it, you owe me a kiss.”  
  
“How brilliant are you, Wylan?”  
  
“I’m brilliant, okay, you big cheater?”  
  
“Cheater?”  
  
“You said—”  
  
“The outrage I’m feeling knows no bounds and can only be assuaged by loud proclamation.”  
  
“What—Jes, my mother might hear me!”  
  
Jesper raised his eyebrows. “You think Marya’s going to be upset to hear you saying how brilliant you are?”  
  
“I… maybe?” Wylan offered weakly, but again he saw when he was beaten. “I’m brilliant.”  
  
“Louder.”  
  
“I’m—” he began, then stopped, snickering. “I’m b—” More snickering. Wylan shook his head. “I can’t do it.”  
  
“That’s a pity, then I can’t kiss you.”  
  
“I—I’m brilliant!” Wylan gasped. “I’m brilliant, I’m brilliant, now please lift the embargo. You’re a rare and precious commodity.”  
  
Jesper sat up.  
  
“Embargo lifted,” he said, pulling Wylan closer for a disappointingly brief kiss. “Don’t want to get carried away and give Inej the wrong impression.”  
  
“But she’s not…”  
  
Wylan followed Jesper’s gaze and jumped about a foot in surprise. Not only was Inej in the office, she was perched on the edge of the desk! Wylan blushed. Still, he felt a note of pride when he spotted her heels resting against the desk—or rather, when he spotted the little leather slippers on her feet.  
  
“I don’t think Inej was unclear on whether or not you want to kiss me, anyway,” he grumbled to Jesper.  
  
“I haven’t been unclear on that for months,” Inej agreed. “What did you need from me?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
Wylan glanced at Jesper. He didn’t know if this was a bad idea, and he worried that saying it would make him sound oblivious. Like he didn’t respect the suffering of others. He _did_ —he just didn’t understand it. So even though when he first conceived of the idea, he thought it would help, he knew he might be about to suggest something dumb. Ignorant.  
  
Jesper gave an encouraging nod.  
  
“I’m going to…” Wylan began, his voice soft and squeaky. He swallowed and stood up straighter. “I’m going to hire a maid to help my mother. I can’t be with her as much as she needs _and_ run the business.”  
  
Inej nodded. “She’s been through a lot.”  
  
Wylan nodded in return. “She has!” he said, relieved that he at least had Inej’s understanding for step one. He braced himself for step two. “I’m thinking about buying out someone’s indenture. That system is more than I can undo in—well, it’ll take a long time to fix. In the meanwhile, I can help _someone_. I would never hurt anyone, I wouldn’t… touch or… hit… it would be fair. A fair contract. But it would still be a contract. Inej, would I be just as bad for doing that? This one person, it would help her. Isn’t that better?”  
  
What he feared was that even thinking about this would damage the esteem he had built up in Inej’s eyes. She would see him as oblivious, just another mercher boy unable to comprehend the cruelties the less privileged faced. The thing is, she was right. That’s exactly what Wylan was and he knew perfectly well that he couldn’t imagine all Inej had been through… but he believed this would help. Even if it only helped one person.  
  
Maybe he shouldn’t. Wylan had tossed the idea back and forth in his mind. Maybe he _shouldn’t_ , could make a larger statement by abstaining from participation in the indenture system.  
  
If that was Inej’s opinion, Wylan would abide by it. He would defer to her knowledge in this area. He wasn’t afraid of being told he was wrong; he was afraid of seeing their fragile, nascent friendship broken. He was afraid he was too much a merchant.  
  
“Yes,” Inej said, “that’s better. As long as it’s her choice. Whoever you pick, you need to sit down with her and explain the situation. Be honest. Whatever she decides, respect her wishes.”  
  
“I will,” Wylan promised.  
  
“Do you have someone in mind?”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “I barely know anyone at all. I hoped you might be able to help.”

* * *

  
After their chat with Inej, Wylan and Jesper called it a night. Wylan took longer changing and Jesper was already in bed when Wylan finished brushing his teeth.  
  
“Jes, can we talk about earlier?” Wylan asked, settling on the edge of the bed.  
  
“Do we have to?” Jesper mumbled into his pillow.  
  
Wylan chewed his lip. He looked at Jesper, who had his face pressed into the pillow, covers halfway up his back, and that much skin was… _distracting_. Wylan reached over—hesitated—and touched Jesper’s shoulder, just his fingertips. He pulled away quickly.  
  
That was—that had been forward.  
  
“You can do that again,” Jesper said.  
  
Wylan’s eyes widened. He could?! He felt a hot tug low in his belly and rested his palm on Jesper’s back.  
  
“I-is this okay?”  
  
“Yes, Wy, that’s fine. If you want to rub my shoulders while you’re back there, go ahead.”  
  
“Wha—you—r-really?”  
  
Jesper snorted. “You don’t have to. I was kidding.”  
  
“No, I—uh—”  
  
He wanted to. He _really_ wanted to. Unable to put that into words, Wylan shifted closer and tentatively began to massage Jesper’s shoulders. Judging from the resulting sigh, he was doing an okay job. Wylan took pride in that, perhaps an inordinate amount of pride. He felt the muscles unknot in Jesper’s shoulders.  
  
Jesper was visibly more relaxed. He was also visibly unfairly attractive. There was just so much… muscle… skin… and his back was so warm under Wylan’s hands…  
  
Wylan leaned closer. He hesitated, then pressed a gentle kiss to the back of Jesper’s neck.  
  
“Mm. That’s nice, Wy.”  
  
Wylan kissed Jesper’s neck again.  
  
“You’re so wonderful, Jesper,” Wylan whispered.  
  
This… it was nice. His mind might be whirring, but he was happy, and he saw and felt that Jesper was content now. He was still, relaxed.  
  
After a few minutes, Wylan asked, “Can we talk about what was upsetting you earlier?”  
  
Jesper hesitated. “Do we have to?”  
  
“Well, it's just—did I do a good job? Or, um, if I didn’t, what could I do next time? Maybe if you told me what you didn’t like, I could know to avoid that if it happens in the future.”  
  
Jesper propped himself up on one elbow, giving Wylan a _look_.  
  
“You don’t want to ask me what happened?”  
  
“If you want to tell me what happened, I want to know. Only if you want. It’s more important that I know how to help. You’ve been good to me, but I can’t—I don’t know how to be that good to you. I’m trying to learn.”  
  
That was how Wylan knew to learn: by asking. He knew he wasn’t supposed to. He was supposed to be able to learn just by observing and putting together the pieces for himself—but where was he supposed to have observed this? He didn’t want to treat Jesper the way his father treated Alys, by lying and distracting her. For them to have an honest conversation, Wylan needed to ask difficult questions.  
  
Jesper reached out, motioning Wylan closer. Wylan turned out the lamp and laid down beside him.  
  
“You were great earlier.”  
  
“Yeah?” he asked, grinning.  
  
“Yeah. I needed you to hold me and make me feel safe. You were perfect.”  
  
Wylan was positively beaming. Everything he had tried to accomplish these past weeks, his successes and failures, he believed it mattered. But this one truly made his heart sing, and it made him realize how much Jesper mattered to him. Wylan wanted so much—he wanted to help his mother, he wanted to use his family’s wealth to do good, he wanted to earn the respect of the other merchants.  
  
But Ghezen’s coffers, none of it mattered for a moment. For a few heartbeats, it was just Jesper. Just Wylan and Jesper and everything was okay.  
  
“You mean so much to me, Jesper. You’re amazing.”  
  
“Glad you noticed,” Jesper replied, drawing Wylan close against him. Wylan squirmed and settled. “Nothing happened,” Jesper muttered. “Nothing went wrong, nothing triggered it, I was just _bored_ and this thing bubbled up inside me. It’s just there, it’s a part of me. I’m…”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Wylan would have happily stayed snuggled against Jesper for the rest of his life—at least the rest of his evening—but knew he was needed elsewhere. He leaned up on one elbow, fingertips on his free hand ghosting along Jesper’s jaw. It wasn’t the easiest position for kissing, knowing if he slipped he was going to accidentally headbutt his boyfriend, but Wylan risked it. In the dark, Wylan took a couple of tries to kiss Jesper’s mouth.  
  
“It makes you stronger.”  
  
“That is absurd.”  
  
“No, it’s not. I’m not saying it’s easy—”  
  
“It’s impossible,” Jesper said, and there was a note of agony in his voice that sliced right through Wylan.  
  
Softly, he said, “Then every day you do the impossible. That’s why you’re my hero. But that’s for day. It’s just you and me now… do you want me to hold you?”  
  
Wylan waited for an answer long enough to start feeling like an idiot for asking. He shouldn’t be allowed to try romance! It was all so _complicated_ and he didn’t have Jesper’s smooth delivery or compelling charm or—  
  
Jesper nodded, silencing the doubts in Wylan’s mind.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
Wylan settled on his back. They had done this a few times. Wylan might not be the most romantic guy in the world, but he knew Jesper slept more peacefully this way. Besides, with their different heights, lying down was the only way Wylan could hold Jesper properly.  
  
With his arms around Jesper, Wylan felt as his breathing steadied and deepened, as he relaxed toward sleep. There was something Wylan wanted to say. Jesper would say it, if their positions were reversed. Jesper had said it a few times, actually, but the words stuck in Wylan’s throat.  
  
He settled for gently tapping Jesper’s shoulder three times. Not an ‘I need your attention’ tap. Just a way to tell him something Wylan had no other way to say.  
  
“’m not ticklish there,” Jesper murmured.  
  
He was asleep before Wylan could scrape together a response. Wylan joined him soon after.


	27. The House of Sweet Jade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: part of this chapter takes place in a brothel; physical and sexual abuse are implied.

Jesper groaned in protest at the prospect of waking up. He could feel it happening, knew he was consciously thinking, saw the light beyond his eyelids. But he was so comfortable. The sheets were soft and warm around him.  
  
He reached out for Wylan. Waking up was a misery, but Wylan could make it better. Jesper would start with kissing his neck and see where things led… he felt a stirring at the prospect, enough to distract him from all this waking business.  
  
His hand found only empty sheets.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Jesper opened his eyes. To his disappointment, he found no Wylan in the bed, nor the rest of the room. Well, now he had no one to slowly flirt into kissing him. That was one problem. The second—where was his boyfriend? Jesper had teased Wylan for a comment about going to bed together a few nights ago, but for the most part, they had both gone to bed together and woken up together since coming to the house on Geldstraat.  
  
Jesper wanted to tell himself he was concerned from a change in routine because Wylan was a creature of habit, and what if something was wrong? He wanted to believe himself, too. That was better than the twinge inside him that felt hurt like he had been left behind.  
  
Was this about Jesper teasing him with that kiss in front of Inej?  
  
Or because he had needed Wylan’s help yesterday?  
  
Maybe it had to do with the debts…  
  
He didn’t know why, but his boyfriend was missing and it left the distinct sensation that Jesper was being punished.  
  
Suddenly far less eager to face the day, Jesper left the bed, washed up, and dressed. He paused when he found something in his trouser pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He unfolded it. Wylan had drawn a bird. Jesper recognized it as one they saw in Fjerda, a funny little thing with its legs set back so it seemed to be walking upright rather than balancing like a normal bird. Wylan had been fascinated. It got him into trouble when he was too busy watching the birds to keep the fire fed, but the next day he had approached Matthias with questions.  
  
Jesper folded the paper and slipped it back into his pocket.  
  
He found Wylan in the office. There were maps spread on the desk and Wylan was alternating between sketching and tracing lines with his fingertips.  
  
Jesper knew he should announce himself, but wouldn’t it be better to… not? He could do something silly and make all this go away. Whatever was wrong between them, they would laugh and everything would be okay.  
  
So Jesper crept up on Wylan and leaned close, close enough to hear Wylan muttering to himself, and gently blew on the back of his neck. He anticipated Wylan would yelp like he had the other day, maybe jump out of his chair. Something they could both smile about.  
  
Instead Wylan tensed like a scared rabbit.  
  
“Oh, hell—it’s me, Wy. It’s just me. That wasn’t funny and I’m a podge.” He just hadn’t thought—he wanted things to be okay between them. He was playing. It should have helped.  
  
Wylan slowly relaxed. He scanned the room before his eyes settled on Jesper and he offered a watery smile.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jesper said. “It was supposed to be a joke…”  
  
“You just startled me. That’s all.”  
  
“I’m so—”  
  
Wylan raised himself halfway out of his chair and pressed his mouth to Jesper’s, swallowing his words.  
  
“No apologies, remember?” Wylan said softly, cupping Jesper’s cheek in his hand. Wylan didn’t have a lot of moves, but that kiss and caress was increasingly part of his repertoire. Jesper approved. He stepped back, giving Wylan enough room to stand.  
  
No apologies.  
  
That had seemed like a really good rule for them when Jesper thought of it. A really good rule for Wylan, anyway.  
  
“What do you want me to say when I make you think of him?”  
  
“You don’t make me think of him,” Wylan said.  
  
“What do you want me to say right now?”  
  
“How about good morning?”  
  
“How about good morning,” Jesper repeated.  
  
Wylan laughed. “Okay, smartass.”  
  
Jesper smirked. “I knew you couldn’t stop thinking about my ass.”  
  
Which only made Wylan blush and laugh harder, and Jesper put his arms around him and felt most of his hurt fade away. If Wylan had been angry with him earlier, he wasn’t anymore.  
  
“What are you working on?”  
  
“I want to cut the shipping lines.”  
  
Not quite the response Jesper expected.  
  
“The fleet loses one boat for every five runs, and that’s too many. We don’t need to take so many risks. Those sailors—that’s someone’s father or mother or brother or sister or child. Maybe we can find out where my father wanted to reach, if there’s a safer, costlier alternative he would have ignored. I know he had a broader plan. We can go over land or the long way or not at all.”  
  
“People over profits,” Jesper said. He found himself smiling as the confidence in Wylan’s voice grew. “Ghezen wouldn’t approve, merchling.”  
  
“Well… well _stuff_ Ghezen.”  
  
Jesper had the distinct impression Wylan had been reaching for a stronger term and hearing him spit “stuff” like the rudest word in the world made Jesper laugh.  
  
“Safe routes, stuff Ghezen. What else?”  
  
Wylan took a deep breath. “Eil Komedie. It didn’t work because my father doesn’t know how to have fun. He wanted an alternative to the Barrel that honored productivity and a decent life. That’s boring.”  
  
It was.  
  
“I’ll make it fun. We, if you want. We’ll make it fun. With fireworks and ice cream and… and swings.”  
  
There it was—that part of Wylan that made Jesper smile, and if Jesper hadn’t already been holding him, he would have needed to cuddle Wylan like a child’s stuffed animal. His innocent idea of _fun_ centered around fireworks, ice cream, and swings.  
  
Jesper would help, of course. Wylan’s sweet concepts of fun ought to be included, but Jesper already had a few ideas for making an amusement park louder fun. This was going to be fantastic. Not gambling, of course, not if they were truly creating an alternative to the Barrel, but there were still loads of ways to have fun.  
  
“He put it in my name, you know.”  
  
“That seems—”  
  
“As a taunt. Because it was broken. So we’ll make it thrive. The only thing he meant to leave for me will become one of our biggest earners. And—”  
  
Wylan began so hopefully, so determined, but cut himself off before he could share.  
  
“And?” Jesper prompted. He liked where this conversation was going. He liked Wylan this way, he liked the energy they were sharing, he liked _this_.  
  
“And…” Wylan shook his head. “It wouldn’t be for a few years, anyway.”  
  
“What are we going to do in a few years?”  
  
“When I know what I’m doing as a merchant, I want to open up the house,” Wylan said. “When children run away they should have somewhere to run to.”  
  
Jesper liked these ideas, all of them—a shipping company that didn’t unnecessarily risk sailors’ lives, a place for runaways to run away to, he was definitely going to be good at making Eil Komedie fun. Most of all, though, he liked the way Wylan tossed out the notion of what they would be doing in a few years. It soothed away the last of his worries that Wylan was angry with him.  
  
Jesper kissed him.  
  
“I love you.”  
  
“You too.”

* * *

  
  
The parlor in the House of Sweet Jade was not a familiar place for Wylan Van Eck. He folded his hands in front of himself, resisting the urge to fidget or drop his gaze. It didn’t matter that he was uncomfortable right now—he knew he held the power in this situation—but that didn’t stop him wanting to squirm some.  
  
He didn’t squirm.  
  
He wore one of his new suits, one that fit him well. It couldn’t hide his baby face, but though he still looked young, he also looked rich. In Kerch, you could do as you liked if you were rich.  
  
“Her,” he said, nodding in the young woman’s direction.  
  
“Agata.”  
  
The man Wylan had spoken to, Frans, motioned her over. Should he try to smile reassuringly? No, Wylan decided, that would only make him seem creepy. He wondered if Kaz knew he was here. Hopefully Kaz would know Wylan well enough to understand he was not visiting a brothel for any unseemly reason.  
  
“Onkle Frans,” Agata said, smiling. There was pain behind her smile. Pain and fear and exhaustion.  
  
“This is Mister Van Eck, you’ll be entertaining him for the next hour.”  
  
Agata hesitated, and Wylan saw the way Frans’ strength shifted.  
  
“Two hours, and I won’t like her if she’s damaged,” he said. Hopefully he sounded cool and unconcerned like Kaz would. “After you, Agata.”  
  
Wylan didn’t know what other brothels were like, but found the gently aggressive green of the House of Sweet Jade a little off-putting. It was just too much, too unnatural—it was like someone had shrunk him down and dropped him into a bottle of sprinkles. Did some men really like this?  
  
Agata shut the door behind him and, with a bubbly giggle, moved to remove Wylan’s jacket.  
  
He stepped back.  
  
“That won’t be necessary. I have a proposition for you. Once you’ve heard me out, I’ll go. Or I can stay while you have a rest. He would rent you out again if I left early, yes?”  
  
The look on her face was a mix of wariness, confusion, and fear.  
  
“I… y-yes,” she said.  
  
“Shall we have a seat?”  
  
The room wasn’t designed for business. There was a little loveseat meant to push them close; Wylan shifted some pillows and put his back hard against the armrest to give her space. Agata settled on the opposite side of the loveseat, though ‘opposite’ was a generous description. Their knees pressed against each other. A couple of scrawny kids and still there was no personal space! He couldn’t imagine what this would be like with someone like Matthias—or someone as big as Matthias, but not as respectful.  
  
Agata smiled at him. She couldn’t have been more than seventeen. She had a heart-shaped face with a dust of freckles across her nose, lovely green eyes, white-blond hair in a carefully messy half-up style. Wylan found her ears oddly endearing. She was beautiful, like a painting would be, but her ears stuck out in a way that accentuated her guarded, mousy expression. Nothing in her carefully made-up appearance could hide those things.  
  
He had known. Intellectually, he had known. Seeing Agata up close, Wylan felt his stomach churning with the reality in front of him. Even knowing Inej suffered in a place like this, he hadn’t really _felt_ it. He just _knew_. But he had thought of the girls in these houses like Inej, strong, survivors. Alone with Agata, he felt it now, her fear.  
  
Ghezen’s books, how many girls, how many boys, how many innocent people suffered here?  
  
Wylan cleared his throat.  
  
“Do you want me to call you Agata?”  
  
“That’s my name, Mister Van Eck. But you can call me whatever you like.”  
  
That she had bounced the question back was not lost on him. _What do you want? I want what you like._  
  
“Please, call me Wylan.”  
  
“Of course, Wylan.”  
  
She was so frightened. He couldn’t see anything more than he saw the fear. Her obvious vulnerability made him want to protect her; it made the strength inside him buck and swell and promise new capacity. He didn’t understand men who came here to take advantage of her. Of girls like her. The fact that they did newly repulsed him.  
  
He wanted to make it better, but even as he knew he could help _her_ , he realized that wasn’t nearly enough.  
  
“I’d like to offer you a job. If you’re interested, I’ll purchase your indenture. You’d owe me money and you’d work off the debt honestly. I won’t hurt you or let anyone else hurt you. Or rape you.”  
  
She looked away at the word. Embarrassed? Or afraid to admit it? Wylan imagined those indentured to these houses had limits on what they could and couldn’t say.  
_  
_ “I need someone to help look after my mother. She spent several years in an asylum. She’s not entirely well, she’s not mad but she’s not entirely well, either. The job, if you’d like it, you would be a maid and a nurse. She needs help looking after herself. Sometimes she loses track and needs someone to tell her where she is and what’s happening. It's a job that requires a lot of patience. I assume that coming from this profession, you can be patient, and you’re not going to be squeamish. Is that true?”  
  
“It… it is true that I can be patient,” Agata said carefully. “I don’t know this word. Squeamish?”  
  
“Would it bother you to help a woman wash or put her clothes on?”  
  
“Oh. No.”  
  
Wylan nodded. That was out in the open then: what he wanted from her, laid out honestly, just like Inej said it must be. He only promised her things he planned to deliver: an honest job; room, board, and safety; a five or six day work week, as she preferred, and her contract calculated accordingly. If she had family back in Fjerda, he promised to help contact them. He did not pretend his mother was always easy to care for—an honest job, not an easy job.  
  
“There’s one more thing,” he said. She had not agreed, but he didn’t blame her—there would be no consequences for Wylan if Agata agreed and this conversation was overheard; there would be harsh consequences for her. He couldn’t buy out the contract tonight, he would have to come back tomorrow. Still, he wanted to help her, but… “I have a boyfriend. I have no sexual interest in women. I understand that’s frowned upon in Fjerda and I won’t pretend to be otherwise. If it makes you uncomfortable, I would understand your refusal to come work for me.”  
  
Agata looked at her hands, and Wylan hoped she would see past his relationship with Jesper. He didn’t see why it _should_ matter to her, she wasn’t a part of it, but he knew the Fjerdans were… were different. Culturally.  
  
Softly, Agata asked, “Do you make him do things to you?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then I do not care.”  
  
Wylan stayed for the full two hours. She made no promises that evening, nor did he expect her to. He waited patiently, working on some sketches while Agata slept—not sketches of her, of course. Given how quickly she fell asleep, he thought, she really needed the rest.  
  
When it was time to go, he shook her awake, gathered his things, and promised to return tomorrow.  
  
He had avoided West Stave for most of his life—he had avoided the Barrel for most of his life, but even when he lived here, he had spent little time on West Stave. It wasn’t as bad as some areas; customers visited from Zelver and Geldin Districts, and they had certain expectations. It was still the Barrel, still gaudy and sinful, but it was a mildly sanitized Barrel.  
  
Wylan hesitated when he ought to have hopped into a gondel at the first opportunity. He could head to the Slat—was he homesick for a place that had never been his home?  
  
No, Wylan realized. He wasn’t thinking about _the Slat_ , he was thinking about Kaz. Which was ironic, because Kaz wouldn’t want to see him.  
  
He shook his head and continued towards home.  
  
Wylan had left specific instructions that no one needed to wait up for him, that he might be late and didn’t expect anyone to skip their sleep just because he had an errand. Right. An ‘errand’—not that anyone would really mind a merchant visiting the pleasure houses West Stave. He was _hardly_ the first. When he arrived home, though, he found a light left on for him. Wylan smiled. No one had to do that, but the little welcomes comforted him.  
  
He slipped upstairs as quietly as possible. He never knew what hours Inej kept. Hopefully his mother was sleeping soundly. Jesper was a sound enough sleeper that Wylan was fairly certain he could crawl into bed beside him without waking him. Which was good, since that was his plan.  
  
That _was_ his plan, until he saw the light under the door.  
  
“Jes, you weren’t waiting for me, were you?”  
  
Jesper set aside the book he had been reading.  
  
“If I were,” he said, stretching suggestively, “would you make it up to me?”  
  
Wylan smiled. Again. He did that a lot lately.

He had no idea how _this_ had become his life. It was the sort of thing he dreamed about before—literally dreamed, he didn’t dare wish when he was awake. Like the life he had before, but different. A life with all the ease and safety and the comfortable trappings money brought, but without fear. A life where he got to walk into this house like a merchant in a fine suit. And there was Jesper. Beautiful, perfect Jesper, waiting for him, _wanting_ him…

  
“Hey. Starlight?” Jesper asked, leaning forward, concern growing on his face.  
  
Wylan shook his head. He came and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in for a long, slow kiss.  
  
“Are you okay? You went away for a minute.”  
  
“I’m fine,” Wylan said, reaching for Jesper’s hand. “I was just—you were here… I realized if I could’ve dreamed my life, I would’ve dreamed this.”  
  
Jesper grinned. His eyes sparkled and Wylan forgot about being tired and being worried and—everything. Everything that wasn’t in Jesper’s eyes stopped mattering.  
  
“So I’m a dream come true?” he asked.  
  
“I would never have the audacity to dream anyone as perfect as you. You know, I thought you were… incredibly handsome from the moment I saw you.”  
  
Jesper laughed. “You did not.”  
  
“I did!”  
  
“Wy, you were terrified of me.”  
  
“I—well, yes, but that was my second thought.”  
  
Jesper laughed. “All right, stop being ridiculous and get changed, would you? You look exhausted. The evening on West Stave really wore you out.”  
  
Wylan laughed and blushed. “Jealous?” he asked.  
  
Jesper could do a lot with laughter. He could be fun, sarcastic, dry… flirty. Now he was being flirty.  
  
“I have nothing to be jealous of.” Brushing a finger through Wylan’s curls, “Do I, gorgeous?”  
  
Wylan swallowed. Yeah, he had made a mistake in starting this flirting game, he had already lost. Losing had never been this much fun.  
  
“M-maybe!” Then, more seriously, “You know I would never do that to you, right? I would never be with another guy.”  
  
“My boyfriend spent the evening with a prostitute and my only concern was whether she would be a good companion for his mother, I think we can say mistrust isn’t a concern here. Besides,” Jesper had turned to full flirtation now, gesturing to himself as he said, “no way you’re going to find someone better than all of this, right?”  
  
“That is true.”  
  
“You’re not supposed to agree with my self-aggrandizing comments.”  
  
Wylan shrugged. “Either stop making them or accept how much I adore you.”  
  
“I see bold Wylan is joining us tonight.”  
  
If Jesper had a shirt, Wylan would have toyed with it. He wasn’t wearing one, so Wylan, hesitant and gaging Jesper’s reaction, placed a gentle hand on the back of Jesper’s neck. For a long moment, they shared a look. Then Wylan kissed Jesper.  
  
“Now I really must get changed or I’ll just get in bed this way.”  
  
“There’s a lot I’ll accept in my bed, but I draw the line at shoes.”  
  
Wylan hopped back to his feet and headed for the closet. Before he changed into his nightshirt, he slipped a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He wasn’t sure about this drawing. It was finished, but… well, this was hardly a drawing of a bird or a flower. If Wylan was sharing a picture he drew of Jesper, it had better show everything he saw. Jesper was tough to draw. It was hard to pick one still moment for someone so defined by their habit of living in motion.  
  
“Wy?”  
  
“Coming!” Wylan called, realizing he had been debating too long. He folded the drawing and stuck it in one of Jesper’s pockets, then hurriedly changed into his nightshirt.  
  
As Wylan settled into bed, Jesper asked, “Was she, though? A good fit for Marya?”  
  
“I think she is. This could work.”  
  
And he was thrilled. This was big. This was… permanent, this was a solution. Things were getting better. He realized he no longer hoped for his mother to be healthy. That was a long road. And he was actually accepting defeat, he was accepting that he couldn’t help her, but it didn’t feel like giving up.  
  
Besides…  
  
“I’ve done the math. If we prolong the contract, I can pay her, not a lot, but she’ll have options, she won’t be dependent and when her contract is up, she won’t be stuck. It’s not perfect, but it’s a fairer indenture.”  
  
Jesper resettled against Wylan, kissing his hair. “Talking about math and business in bed, mercher boy?” he muttered.  
  
“Jesper,” Wylan said, sounding euphoric, _feeling_ euphoric, “we have so much more work to do.”


	28. The Spinner's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter focuses on Agata and contains references to sexual abuse and strangulation.

Agata Eklund hadn’t slept well. She had too much to think about. Too much to worry about. Her Kerch was good, but not _so_ good. She spoke Kerch for men, not for business. What that man said last night—he said he would take her from this. Didn’t he? That he would give her another choice, a better job… wasn’t that what he said?  
  
What if she misunderstood?  
  
She held her hair back and looked at herself in the glass, examining the red rimming her eyes and the bruises around her throat. After it happened, she promised Onkle Frans she was well enough to work. Days off work cost too much.  
  
Everything.  
  
Everything cost too much.  
  
Agata reached into the back corner of a drawer and drew out a little toy she had made. It was just some scraps she had sewn together; she didn’t have any real stuffing and the eyes were little knots, but with a spare bit of silk and a needle she had made herself an only mildly misshapen kitty. A person might have to look at it sideways to notice, but Agata saw the cat shape. She smiled at the creature and stroked its floppy ears.  
  
The cat had been her only friend in her time here. Sometimes she risked holding it while she slept.  
  
She picked up a brush. As she tidied her hair, she told herself it wasn’t for the other men. If Wylan arrived today, she needed to be presentable. And if he didn’t, that didn’t mean anything, because he might need another day or two for… for…  
  
She didn’t know. She didn’t know about these things. How could she? Until three years ago, she was nothing more than a spinner’s daughter. She knew how to spin, too—and how to card wool, how to knit. Life was small and that was just fine.  
  
Then, one night, as she laid awake watching a candle flicker, she drew its flame to her. It frightened her at first, the fire itself, it frightened her, but it didn’t burn her. After that seed of fear failed to sprout, it was like a kitten. It just wanted to play. That was the first thing she did, she made the little flame into the shape of a kitten.  
  
But the next day, in the light, Agata had been ashamed of herself for what she did. She had been crushed by it. She was… she was a witch! Through no fault of her own, she was a witch.  
  
It was the only sensible thing to do: she confessed it to her priest. She explained that it had been an accident. Though her actions were an affront to Djel, though _she_ was an affront to Djel, the priest was understanding. For weeks and weeks they prayed together, and with his support, she began to feel good again. Sometimes she would slip. She would stoke the fire with her drusje power on a very cold night. She would pull a piece of the flame too her and make it into a shape, usually a kitten or a horse.  
  
She was drusje, but she didn’t see herself as drusje. She saw herself as Agata Eklund, the spinner’s daughter.  
  
And that was just fine.  
  
She never told her papa what she was. She meant to, but things were bad in her town, they were bad a long time. She watched Papa grow thinner, watched his hair and beard grow greyer, and knew she couldn’t add to his worries. She had thought, after she heard the clink of the coins some strangers poured into his hands, he would be happier now, but he was busier than ever. That made sense, she thought. He was fulfilling his obligation. Once he had finished the job, he would be in a better mood, she would explain…  
  
“Agata!”  
  
She snapped back to the present. Away from the spinner’s daughter, and back to the girl in the brothel with ugly bruises on her neck.  
  
She set down the hairbrush, though she hadn’t finished with it, tied her hair back, and tucked her cat back into its hiding place. Then she hurried to answer the summons. She was shown into the office. The man she knew as Onkle Frans was there with Wylan from last night and a ridiculously tall man she didn’t recognize.  
  
Agata smiled to see him again—Wylan, who promised to come back and to help her, and here he was! Not exactly how she imagined a knight in shining armor. No, he was far smaller and skinnier. Clearly she needed to update her concept of a knight in shining armor.  
  
“It seems those two hours weren’t enough,” Frans said, “your contract has been purchased. Your time here is finished.”  
  
“If you want,” Wylan added.  
  
Agata nodded eagerly. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I still want that!”  
  
He smiled, but frowned when he noticed the bruises on her neck. “Agata, what happened?”  
  
“You know what happened, Wy,” said the ridiculously tall man.  
  
Frans told them, “No one asked about her temperament. If you’d asked, I would have—”  
  
“Stop talking,” Wylan interrupted. There was something so cold and hard in his voice, Agata flinched, even though he was looking at Frans.  
  
“Now, you did not—”  
  
“ _Stop. Talking_. I may be too young to serve on the Merchant Council, Mister Kikkert, but I have a long memory and more connections than you can imagine. I’m not a man to cross. Agata, we’ll take care of the bruises this afternoon. Go and pack your things, I’d like to leave as soon as you’re ready.”  
  
Agata nodded and started to turn. She wanted that, too.  
  
“Actually,” Frans said, “the girls don’t _own_ anything. Their belongings are graciously provided by the House of Sweet Jade, but that does not make them theirs to keep…”  
  
The look he gave made her shudder, and the implication sank in a moment later. He couldn’t mean that. Agata had never mistaken Frans for kind, but he couldn’t expect her to walk out of her without a stitch. Could he?  
  
“Leave the dress, Agata.”  
  
Agata hadn’t thought she was capable of feeling humiliated, but she did now. The words coated her spine like filth, like rancid oil. Her eyes watered, but she had spent too long in this house to disobey and began to unbutton her dress.  
  
“Don’t,” Wylan said.  
  
The ridiculously tall man cleared his throat.  
  
“Clothing was a line in her contract,” he said. “A part of her debt, which now belongs to us. Unless you’d like to negotiate to buy them back—if you’d be willing to sell, Wylan?”  
  
“Hm, I suppose, for the right price, but I’d rather not stay any longer than is necessary in this horrid place—go and pack your things, Agata. Don’t look at him. You don’t work for him.”  
  
“Should we accompany her? For safety?”  
  
“No, that won’t be necessary. Here.”  
  
He handed her a small pin of leaves, which she fixed to her dress.  
  
“That indicates your indenture now belongs to me,” Wylan explained, “and anyone who interferes with you will have me to answer to. In the unlikely event anyone is foolish enough to try, I will deal with them.”  
  
Agata nodded, gave Wylan and his very tall companion another look, and hurried back to her room. She wasted no time throwing her things together. She had no trunk and so stuffed her dresses into a pillowcase, picking her least horrible dresses, the ones that covered the most of her body. There were a few nice ribbons for her hair, her brush, and—nothing more. This was all her life had been distilled into.  
  
She wouldn’t miss this room. It had a little window that looked out on an alley, let in only a gasp of the weak Ketterdam sunlight, and did not open. It had a door that only locked on the outside. It had a bed that made her sick to lie on, but on which she must lie. At first she had spent her nights on the floor, but that left her stiff and made her movements unattractive. So she slept on the bed. They made her sleep there. Where they had done other things, so many…  
  
Agata kicked the bed. She hated that bed. Kicked it, and the pain in her foot was _hers_ and she deserved it and owned it because it felt like anger. She had swallowed anger for so long.  
  
Then she ran back to the parlor, clutching her pillowcase, all too ready to leave this place.  
  
“Are you ready?” Wylan asked.  
  
Agata nodded.  
  
“Let’s go.” He said the words like cracking open the world was so simple!  
  
It wasn’t until they were in the gondel, Agata seated squished close beside Wylan and opposite his very tall friend, that she felt like she was breathing. A part of her knew she had only met Wylan last night and had no reason to truly trust him, but a bigger part of her clung to the idea of him. He had taken her out of that place.  
  
“This is Jesper Fahey,” Wylan said.  
  
“Wylan’s partner, secretary, best friend…” said Jesper Fahey. Agata wasn’t sure what she was meant to call him.  
  
“And boyfriend. He’s terribly humble,” Wylan added.  
  
“It’s nice to meet you, Agata.”  
  
“Y-yes—and you,” she said.  
  
The canal curved. Agata looked back, craning over her shoulder, but the house was gone. The pleasure house was out of sight for the first time in over a year.  
  
She took a deep breath.  
  
It was over.  
  
It was really, really over.  
  
Agata hadn’t seen much of Ketterdam. She was only very, very rarely allowed out of the House of Sweet Jade, and even then did not travel far. She watched the city around her, watched as the buildings became grander and grander. To her surprise, she saw an almost _pretty_ side of Ketterdam, even plants growing! _Djel_. She looked for ash trees, but even without them, the plants, the waters, told her that this city, too, was a part of the world. At some point its waters flowed north.  
  
“Here we are,” Wylan announced. He tipped the boatman as Jesper helped Agata out of the gondel—how did the Kerch get used to these things?! Although she knew they were her employers now, Agata liked Wylan and Jesper already.  
  
“Which part is yours?” she asked, craning her neck to look up at the building.  
  
“He owns all of it,” Jesper said. “Yep. Wylan’s one of the wealthiest men in Ketterdam.”  
  
“You have to stop telling people that.”  
  
Jesper shrugged. “Lose your money,” he replied. Wylan laughed, and Agata pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle giggles.  
  
Her eyes widened when she realized what she had done. She had been so caught up in their friendliness and their teasing she had behaved like she was their friend—but if she had ever looked that way at a client, she would have known what to expect. Let alone the man who held her contract!  
  
Wylan only caught her eye and shook his head, smiling.  
  
“I should have known you’d like Jesper better,” he said. “Everyone does.”  
  
Jesper put an arm around Wylan’s shoulders, pulled him close and kissed his cheek. It should have been disgusting to see two men that way, Agata vaguely knew—men weren’t meant to be with men like that—not to mention the shamelessness of the way they touched in _public_ and they weren’t _married_ and—could two men even marry here? But she didn’t care. Agata had been touched and kissed in truly disgusting ways. Between these two, she saw only affection. It was obvious. She saw Jesper with his hands on Wylan so obviously gentle, and Wylan smiling up at Jesper like he put the stars in the sky.  
  
“I like you best,” Jesper said.  
  
“You’re being ridiculous.”  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
“Come on. Let’s introduce Agata to Miss Meijer—the housekeeper,” Wylan told Agata. “You’ll answer to her when I’m not around. She’ll show you to your room and have those bruises taken care of. I want you to have some time to adjust to the house before you meet my mother.”  
  
Agata nodded. “Of course, Mister Van Eck.”  
  
When he spoke like that, he wasn’t ‘Wylan’, he was her boss and even if he was at least a year younger than her, he was still a man. And he had saved her from that place. She was most comfortable showing him respect.  
  
Miss Meijer was a stern-faced woman with her hair swept up in an austere bun, and once Wylan and Jesper had gone, she glanced meaningfully at the low neckline of Agata’s dress and gave a disdainful sniff. Agata shifted self-consciously, carrying her pillowcase of belongings higher to cover herself. Miss Meijer’s dresses covered far more than Agata’s—but, a part of Agata objected, she had not chosen her dress! No one had asked her! She was simply given clothing and taught how to display herself.  
  
Miss Meijer gave Agata an evaluating all-over look, then said, “You’re about Jette’s size. You’ll borrow something from her until we can get you something appropriate of your own. A lady’s maid does not look like a common prostitute.”  
  
“Yes, Miss Meijer.”  
  
The answer seemed to satisfy her, because she nodded and left Agata to unpack.  
  
The interaction had put something of a dampener on her mood, and as Agata looked around the room, she thought it was considerably more practical than her room at the House of Sweet Jade. It was perfect, not too big, but it had a bed and a chest, and she didn’t need much more. She tested the lock on the door. She opened the window. It was quite high and she needed to stand on the chest, but she could put her face there and feel the fresh air on her face. There was industry on it, the smell of factories, but it was weaker here.  
  
There was even a scent of the ocean, just a hint.  
  
Agata frowned.  
  
That’s where she had been…  
  
Papa sent her down to the beach. He wrapped her up in Mama’s thick red cloak to keep her warm, kissed her forehead, looked very sadly into her eyes. Then he told her to be careful as she looked for anything tossed up by the latest storm. It was rare Agata scavenged, especially after such a minor storm, but she was a good Fjerdan girl. She went to the shore.  
  
“You have pretty hair!”  
  
Agata turned away from the window. In the doorway stood a girl, maybe a few years her senior, brown-haired, sparkling brown eyes, round cheeks. Beneath her friendly face was the uniform of an enemy soldier, a _kefta_.  
  
“Mister Van Eck wants me to fix your bruises. My names is Sveta.”  
  
Agata remembered something about having her bruises taken care of. She was just thrown by realizing that care would come from a soldier. It was all suddenly… disorienting. It was one thing to be drusje, another entirely to be...  
  
Sveta cocked her head to the side. Slowly, she asked, “Do you speak Kerch?”  
  
“I—y-yes.”  
  
“Good! _A ty govorish po Ravkan_? _Nyet_? Oh. Well.”  
  
Agata only realized how long she had been still when Sveta stepped up onto the trunk, giggling. Her giggles faded when she saw the bruising around Agata’s neck.  
  
“Your fella is a bad man.”  
  
“He’s not my fella.”  
  
“Also good.”  
  
Sveta touched Agata’s neck gently. She felt a sudden terrible itch, then it was gone, taking the pain with it.  
  
“Drusje,” Agata breathed.  
  
“Grisha,” Sveta replied with a quick frown.  
  
But Agata hadn’t said it as an insult. She felt that Sveta had fixed her, and she was grateful—and, well, she wanted to show Sveta her trick with a candle. Instead, she stepped down from the trunk and helped the shorter girl down after her.  
  
“I don’t have much to unpack,” Agata said.  
  
She opened the trunk and began laying her dresses down from the pillowcase. She didn’t bother to unroll and fold them. Miss Meijer likely wouldn’t allow her to wear any of them, and she knew new ones would count against her indenture. It didn’t bother her too much. This place felt safe. She did not mind the idea of staying here.  
  
After placing the last dress down, she reached into her pillowcase—nothing.  
  
“No…”  
  
She shook the pillowcase, turned it upside down. A pink hair ribbon fell to the floor.  
  
“No! My kitty!”  
  
She did not know the word in Kerch, so she said it in Fjerdan.  
  
“Kitty?” Sveta repeated.  
  
“Kitty. My, uh… my… _meow-meow_?” Agata mimicked the noise.  
  
“Ah! Your cat!” Sveta said. Then, “You had a cat?”  
  
Agata shook her head. “A little one. A… pretend… doll! I made it, but I left it behind.”  
  
Sveta gave a sympathetic look. “Can you make a new one?”  
  
Well, she wasn’t going back for her, even if Agata did hate to think about her poor little kitty in the House of Sweet Jade. She hated to think of her kitty thrown out like trash, even if all she really had been was trash. She had been a friend, too, for Agata to confide in. She had been a comfort. A secret. Private when nothing else was.  
  
Agata sank back on her heels. Of course she knew the kitty was just a scrap of fabric and a few stitches, but it had felt like more.  
  
Sveta patted her shoulder.  
  
“You can make another,” she said. “Or maybe get a real cat!”  
  
“A real cat?” Agata repeated. “Would that—would that be allowed?”  
  
Sveta shrugged. “With the old Mister Van Eck? Never. With the new one, probably.”  
  
“The… new one?”  
  
Her eyes gleamed, excited, and Sveta took a deep breath—  
  
A cleared throat drew their attention to the doorway. Miss Meijer stood there, a bundle of cloth in her arms, scowl on her face. What was she scowling about, Agata wondered. Why scowl when you got to work in a beautiful house for fair (as far as she knew) wages? When you could go outside, maybe even to the garden she had seen by the canal?  
  
“This will be yours until something permanent can be arranged. Get dressed. You’re wanted in the parlor.”  
  
Agata nodded. “Thank you, Miss Meijer,” she said, going over to take the cloth from her.  
  
“I can help her be ready,” Sveta said.  
  
Miss Meijer nodded and left them to it. When she was gone, Sveta made such a funny face that Agata had to press a hand to her mouth to stifle giggles. It wouldn’t help anything for Miss Meijer to hear Agata laughing at her on her very first day! But Sveta’s eyes were dancing with mischief.  
  
The dress was simple, dark, and conservative, and Agata found herself breathing easier than she had in years. This… this was better. This was more like it. This was a dress a spinner’s daughter could wear. Sveta deemed it boring as she tied an apron around Agata’s waist, but Agata loved it. She was thrilled when Sveta combed out and braided her hair in a single, simple plait.  
  
“You look…”  
  
“I can feel how I look,” Agata said. “I feel ordinary.”  
  
A look like argument crossed Sveta’s face, like she wanted to tell Agata that, no, she looked great—but it faded quickly. Instead, she led Agata nearly to the parlor, pointed out the door, and wished her luck. Just before they parted ways, Sveta leaned close and whispered, “ _Meow-meow_.”  
  
Agata gave her a ‘how could you!’ look, struggling to stifle laughter. She was supposed to be professional!  
  
She was barely nervous when she made her way into the parlor. A part of Agata knew her time in Kerch would come back for her, probably soon, but for now she got to be someone else, someone _familiar_ , someone in a job she could almost imagine her priest arranging for her. She felt confident.  
  
When she walked into the parlor, she knew immediately that the woman beside Wylan was his mother. He didn’t look _much_ like her, but they had the same curls, and he was holding her hand tenderly. There was a teapot, cookies, and three cups on the table.  
  
He looked up and smiled at her.  
  
“Agata, please come in. This is my mother, Marya Van Eck; Mama, this is Agata Eklund. She’s going to be helping you when I’m at the Exchange.”  
  
Marya looked at Agata, then back to her son.  
  
“I don’t like her,” she said.  
  
“You don’t know her,” Wylan said gently, “that’s why we’re going to sit down and have a nice conversation. I know it’s unorthodox, but given the, um, intimate nature of the work I thought it would be best for us all to get to know each other!”  
  
Marya shook her head.  
  
“Mama, you like Jesper and Inej, don’t you? You didn’t know them either a few weeks ago. Give Agata a chance.”  
  
That didn’t seem to be working, either.  
  
Dropping about five years off his age, he tilted his head, widened his eyes, but it didn’t seem like an act when he said, softly, “For me, Mama? Please?”  
  
Marya softened, too. Instead of looking like a petulant child, she looked like someone’s mama as she stroked his hair and agreed, “Only for you, my Wylan. But I don’t like her.”  
  
“Yet,” Wylan replied.  
  
He motioned to a seat and Agata sat. She leaned forward to pour the tea, careful not to make a mess of it—she might not meet Missus Van Eck’s standards, but she was _not_ brought up poorly! She poured three cups. When Wylan picked up a cookie, she did, too, and went to take a bite.  
  
“No, wait! You put it over your drink,” he explained, demonstrating.  
  
Agata didn’t understand, but copied him.  
  
“The tea will warm the syrup in the stroopwafel. It’s better that way.”  
  
“I’ll try it. Missus Van Eck, do you paint?”  
  
She gave Agata a narrow look. “Wylan told you that.”  
  
“No, ma’am. You have paint on your finger there.”  
  
Marya looked down at her finger, where the tiny drips of bright green speckled her skin. And her expression softened just slightly.  
  
“Do you paint?” she asked.  
  
“I don’t, but my father was a spinner. I know the dyes for wool. We never had green like this—we used nettles. We did have a nice deep green when we used a copper pot.”  
  
“Of course,” Wylan said. Then he used so many Kerch words she had never heard before, Agata gave up trying to understand what he was talking about—she knew it had to do with colors and dyes. That was about the measure of what she understood.  
  
She felt a little better, though, when Marya gave her a knowing glance. She patted her son’s cheek. “My sweet boy. Very bright.” Then she drew him close and kissed his forehead. “You’re confusing the poor girl.”  
  
“Yes, Mama,” he agreed, mildly sheepish. This surprised Agata: she had known teenage boys before and would have expected him to be angry, possibly violent, to feel belittled by his mother’s gentling and scolding… but he was clearly pleased. “Perhaps this is a good time for stroopwafels _._ ”  
  
Now that was indeed agreeable, and Agata was surprised by how good the crispy, gooey, syrupy cookie tasted. She actually gasped when she took her first bite. It led to a lot of meeting eyes and trying to hide smiles, a lot of smiles, and suddenly the room felt much lighter.

* * *

  
She shouldn’t feel this way.  
  
Agata clutched the blanket to her chest. She sat awake, panting in the dark, trying to shake off the fear.  
  
Weak moonlight painted the dark room with soft, faint grey edges.  
  
A ghost-finger trailed across her shoulders. Agata gave a faint squeak as she jolted away from the memory.  
  
It was over, it was over, it was _over_ …  
  
She breathed. She breathed too heavily, raggedly, unable to bring the air all the way to her lungs. Her heart hammered in her chest like it was trying to break free and she didn’t blame it for startling at the cage in which it lived.  
  
She scrubbed at her wet cheeks. It was over now. It was all over.  
  
She staggered a desperate jump out of bed. The lock held when she tested it, and nothing else moved, nothing but Agata moved in the little room.  
  
For the first time in years, Agata was safe. No one was coming. No one was coming into her room tonight. No one would lift her skirt and tell her an indenture hadn’t the right to protest. Then again, she had been “safe” before.  
  
Agata curled her hands by her chest, wishing for her kitty to hold. She wished for a flame to shape into a playful animal.  
  
She thought about that day on the beach, the moment strong arms closed around her and a hand clamped over her mouth. She hadn’t even fought. She wished she had fought, but she had been too startled, and when she realized, too scared.  
  
She curled her toes. Scrubbed her face on her palms.  
  
Everything was better now and Agata shouldn’t feel this way—but she did. In the daylight, she trusted the new holder of her contract. In the dark, he was nothing but a scrawny boy who loved another man, and no match for the others. No match for grown men and bad memories.  
  
Agata returned to her bed.  
  
Got up and checked the lock on the door again.  
  
She returned to bed and laid down under the covers, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm of steady gasps. She tried to breathe deeper, waited for sleep to come. She watched the window as the slowly growing light told her morning approached.


	29. The Ghosts of Ketterdam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had previously marked this story as 32 chapters, and at the time I genuinely expected it to be 32 chapters... but more things kept coming up that felt important to the story, so I've taken off the total chapter count due to uncertainty.

Jesper had never been much of a morning person—but then, usually he woke up next to someone, rolled out of their bed, pulled on his trousers, and on occasion struggled to recall a name. Or woke up alone with a fuzzy post-binge tongue. Or sometimes he woke up in an alley with his pockets even emptier than usual.  
  
That was the problem with going until you hit the wall. One way or another, you woke up with bruises.  
  
Things were different now. He only had the one name to remember, for starters! Besides, he had started going to bed with Wylan; Jesper usually could have kept moving, but made himself settle in to sleep. He woke up better rested and never disoriented. And he woke up with a pretty flautist cuddled against him.  
  
“Gorgeous?” Jesper asked softly. He didn’t like to wake Wylan, but the one thing he didn’t do well was linger.  
  
“I’m awake.”  
  
Jesper was briefly, quietly pleased that Wylan now responded to that name without protesting or squirming.  
  
“Gotta get up.”  
  
“Do we have to, though?” Wylan asked.  
  
“You don’t _have to_ do anything,” Jesper replied, grinning to himself before he even delivered the punchline: “It’s a perk of being one of the wealthiest men in Ketterdam.”  
  
“ _Ghezen_ ,” Wylan moaned, “stop saying that!”  
  
“Make me.”  
  
“Really, Jes?”  
  
“Yes. Make me,” Jesper repeated.  
  
He wasn’t sure what he expected from that.  
  
But it wasn’t what he got.  
  
Wylan pulled away from Jesper, but before Jesper could process this development, Wylan had pushed Jesper from his side to his back, and started kissing him as he climbed on top of him.  
  
When Wylan paused for breath, Jesper… stared at him.  
  
Since when did Wylan Van Eck… any of this?! Since when did he get aggressive, did he start kissing like _that_ out of nowhere?  
  
Not that Jesper was complaining, far from it, he was quite happy to find himself suddenly straddled by his gorgeous boyfriend. He was just surprised. Wylan was usually so shy. Sure, he had kissed Jesper first, but only after Jesper confirmed he wanted to kiss Wylan. Since then he had been more about lacing their fingers together and blushing. Jesper had taken the lead, physically.  
  
He led them slow. There were plenty of things he wanted to do to Wylan. For him. With him. But only after a serious talk about what those things were, and since Wylan still didn’t like Jesper to see him without his clothes on, that talk was a ways off.  
  
“Hey, you,” Jesper said.  
  
Wylan kissed him again. “Hey.”  
  
“This is new.”  
  
“I know, I should’ve asked.”  
  
Wylan started to shift off of Jesper, but Jesper put his hands on Wylan’s hips to stop him.  
  
“I like it.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Better to be sure. Kiss me again, sunshine.”  
  
They had less time for fun the past few days.  
  
Jesper had thought things would be easier once Marya had Agata looking after her, but it was still an adjustment period. He and Wylan were working through the documents, piecing together a thorough picture of the Van Eck empire. Wylan was spending as much time as he could with Marya and Agata as Marya slowly grew to accept the girl, still finding time for himself and Marya to ease her through this.  
  
It’s not that Jesper minded. He didn’t begrudge Wylan his time with his mother. When asked, Jesper said he was fine. He said he was practicing with his zowa abilities (something he genuinely thought about). The city was still largely quarantined and they hadn’t yet found someone to help with the horses, so Jesper at least had that to keep himself occupied, though it wasn’t _enough_. The itch was getting worse.  
  
Moments like this one, he didn’t mind.  
  
“What—why are you laughing?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Because,” Jesper said, unable to keep from chuckling, “you’re blushing.”  
  
Wylan pulled back, looking half confused and half indignant. “I always blush.”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s even cuter from this angle.”  
  
After a while, they both laid back, catching their breath. They were both breathless and silly—who knew too much kissing was dangerous? Ah, well, good thing Jesper loved risks!  
  
“Jes?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Can we just… stay here? Please?”  
  
Jesper wasn’t sure why Wylan was asking his permission, but he certainly had no objection.  
  
“I have to let the horses out, but they can wait for another hour or two. Hey,” Jesper said, propping himself up on one elbow, “what if I read to you?”  
  
Wylan didn’t take his meaning: “You read to me every day.”  
  
“Contracts and business correspondence,” Jesper retorted with an eye roll. “What if I read you something _fun_? I just started a new book, I don’t mind rereading the first chapter.”  
  
Wylan hesitated. Jesper hoped he knew he wasn’t being mocked, that wasn’t something Jesper would do, but they hadn’t discussed novels before. They hadn’t raised the subject of recreational reading.  
  
“Can we try?” Wylan asked. “I don’t know, Jes, but I’d like to try.”  
  
“We can try anything.”  
  
Jesper meant to make it as suggestive as possible; Wylan, disobliging this morning, missed the suggestion and didn’t blush. Well, no one was perfect.  
  
Jesper reached for the novel he had been reading last night and turned to the first page.  
  
“This is _The Ghosts of Ketterdam_ , it’s a Staas Stijn novel. He’s the central character. Staas is a former stadwatch officer, but he drinks too much and he’s caustic. Brilliant though.”  
  
“Mm, why does that sound familiar,” Wylan mused, snuggling against Jesper.  
  
Jesper prodded Wylan’s belly, knowing he was ticklish there. Wylan laughed and squirmed—but Jesper had made his point.  
  
“Chapter One: The Reaper Comes Calling. Mist hung heavy along the streets and canals of Ketterdam…”  


* * *

Coming to Ketterdam had been Sanne’s idea. She and Jette grew up together in the suburbs. No one ever thought they were cousins for real—not reserved, controlled Jette who looked so Kerch she might as well have stepped off the canvas of a DeKappel oil, and fun, flirty, half-Shu Sanne. But their mothers had been sisters, and they were raised as sisters after Sanne’s mother ran off. Her father had been a seasonal laborer and never knew about her.  
  
When Jette’s parents passed, Sanne pushed that they should head into the city. She was glad they had. Jette fit right in here in the Van Eck mansion. She liked the opulence. She liked sneaking into the library to breathe in the scent of the books. As for Sanne, she liked the rest of the city, the fun and wild of it.  
  
The two were tidying the Grisha workshop when the new girl arrived.  
  
“Sveta?” Agata asked softly, but not so softly Sanne couldn’t hear from the next room.  
  
“Aggie!” Sveta chirped. “This is a surprise!”  
  
“How are you?”  
  
“I am well. Bored—but now you’re here!”  
  
“You could come with us,” Sanne offered, poking her head into the room.  
  
Her cousin hissed softly. “Sanne!”  
  
Sanne waved off her concern. “Jette and I were going to pay a visit to the horses when we finish up here. You’re welcome to join us.”  
  
Jette did not look up from where she stood, dusting, but she did mutter, “And only the horses.”  
  
Sanne laughed and tossed a rag at Jette. Sure. _Just_ the horses. She would never do anything inappropriate but was it her fault their boss had such a luscious boyfriend?! _Maybe_ she hoped to catch a glimpse or two.  
  
Meanwhile, Agata turned to Sveta, eyes wide. “Oh, can we?!”  
  
Sveta agreed, so Jette and Sanne wrapped up their work and the quartet headed for the field where the horses wandered about in the daytime.  
  
“Are you looking forward to having some clothes of your own?” Sanne asked.  
  
Agata lowered her gaze.  
  
Oops.  
  
Sanne truly hadn’t meant to shame the other girl. She was just thinking, it must be miserable having to borrow someone else’s things so often.  
  
“I don’t mind sharing,” Jette offered with a smile. She did have the sweeter disposition of the two of them. It wasn’t that Sanne was _sour_ exactly… just a bit too blunt from time to time.  
  
“Um, how do you like working here?” Sanne tried again.  
  
“It goes well, thank you.”  
  
Sveta glanced around and lowered her voice before she asked, “What’s she like? Missus Van Eck?”  
  
Agata looked away for a moment, thoughtful. Neither Sanne nor Jette commented, but they were both curious as well. They had known the other Missus Van Eck—the young, silly one. Of course they had known there was a prior Missus Van Eck, since the previous Mister Van Eck had a son, and for all he had sometimes seemed to haunt the place like a sullen ghost, Mister Wylan had not simply appeared out of thin air. So there had to have been a previous wife.  
  
And then she just _showed up_! Who wouldn’t be curious?!  
  
Finally, Agata said, “She asks questions I don’t always know. I think she must be very smart.”  
  
The other three nodded, accepting that answer—for now. They could inquire more about the lady of the house once Agata had time to learn more about her!  
  
“What about that Miss Ghafa?” Sanne asked.  
  
“Who is that?” Agata said.  
  
“Mister Wylan’s girl friend,” Jette said.  
  
“I thought he only likes boys?” Agata asked.  
  
Sveta’s eyebrows raised. “I know he likes boys. Sometimes people like both.”  
  
“No, only boys,” Agata insisted.  
  
“I wonder which Mister Fahey likes,” Jette murmured, teasing Sanne, who elbowed her in the ribs.  
  
“I think it’s very clear he likes Mister Van Eck,” Agata said.  
  
Jette clarified, “Anyway, I didn’t mean it that way. Not a girlfriend one-word. A… a friend who is a girl. The Suli girl.”  
  
Agata shook her head. Apparently she hadn’t met Miss Ghafa.  
  
“She’s like a ghost!” Sanne said. She glanced at Jette, then confided in the other girls, “We used to call Mister Wylan that.”  
  
“What?” asked Sveta.  
  
“The ghost boy.”  
  
Agata only gave a tight frown.  
  
“You didn’t know him before,” Sanne pointed out. “Nothing like Miss Ghafa though. She could be standing right behind you, you’d never know. Maybe more like a wisp of fog than a ghost.”  
  
“And yet you talk about her,” Jette said, rolling her eyes.  
  
“Pfft.”  
  
“Look at those pretties!” Agata changed the subject, marveling at the four horses. “Like… like…” She said the word in Fjerdan, but as none of them spoke Fjerdan, it didn’t help. “When a mama has two? One, two,” she tried patting each side of her belly.  
  
“Twins?” asked Sveta.  
  
“Twins,” Agata tried out the word.  
  
“Or kidneys.” Jette was the sweet-faced quiet one but Sanne knew her wit could be biting indeed!  
  
“They are made this way,” Sveta said with a giggle. “Grisha work. The old Mister Van Eck must have paid for it in Ravka.”  
  
So the horses weren’t so naturally similar, Sanne thought! That explained why they looked so like a set of children’s toys come to life, just too matched.  
  
“I never saw horses like this before,” Agata said, a distant look on her face, but a happy one. Clearly this one had a penchant for the beasties. “In my village we only had working horses and old mules.”  
  
“They are splendid,” Jette agreed, although she and Sanne had seen plenty of animals like this before. Maybe not so Grisha-made perfect, but lovely enough horses on the outlying farms.  
  
Sanne whistled and offered her palm out. One of the bolder horses came over to sniff a whuff of hot air over her palm.  
  
“Good horse,” Sanne told him, stroking his forelock. She was always surprised at how coarse a horse’s mane was; it might look smooth as silk, but it sure didn’t feel that way.  
  
“Can I pet him?” Agata asked.  
  
Sanne shrugged. “Try,” she said, “it’s more up to him than to me.”  
  
Seeing attention given to one horse, the others were ambling over now. Agata offered her hand, then jolted back with a yelping giggle when the horse approached. Apparently the horses in her village were really, really unimpressive ones.  
  
“You like them,” Sveta observed.  
  
Agata nodded. “I wish I could ride one…”  
  
“You can if you want.”  
  
All four girls turned, startled to hear a male voice joining their conversation.  
  
Jette was the most startled. And the first to speak.  
  
“Mister Fahey! We… were… we were taking a break—”  
  
“And Mister Van Eck is with Missus Van Eck,” Agata added, swiftly explaining her presence here. Then, “I mean—um—Missus Van Eck is with—um—her son.”  
  
Sanne saw Jette bite her lip and knew _exactly_ what she was thinking—it did sound hilariously untoward that there was a Mister Van Eck and a Missus Van Eck, how it _sounded_ like a married couple yet they so decidedly were not one! To hide her amusement, Jette dropped into a curtsey. A swift kick to Sanne’s ankle had her bobbing likewise.  
  
“You really don’t need to do that,” Mister Fahey said. “Agata, do you want to ride? You can if you want. The horses are right here, you’re right here…”  
  
“I… I wouldn’t… know how,” she said.  
  
“I know how,” Jette volunteered. “I can help.”  
  
“Fantastic. Let’s go, you two—anyone else? Sveta? Okay.”  
  
Sanne watched Mister Fahey lead the other three girls into the field. He slipped a halter onto one of the horses and explained that would give Agata _some_ control and something to grab onto if she needed. He laced his fingers together to help her up. Agata bit her lip, tried, slipped—she landed in the dust, but everyone, Agata included, had a laugh about it. When they had her on the horse, Jette took the lead rope and led the horse at a very slow walk, while Sveta walked next to them, keeping a hand on Agata.  
  
As for Agata herself, she was clearly having the time of her life. Sanne smiled. Everyone knew where Agata came from. Miss Meijer made sure of that, and it was part of the reason Sanne had wanted to reach out to her. The poor girl seemed so sweet and came from such an awful place, obviously she needed friends.  
  
“It’s not for you?” Mister Fahey asked, coming to lean against the fence beside Sanne.  
  
She shook her head. “They have it under control,” she said. She regarded him for a moment—he was even lovelier up close, there was a wickedness to his easy smile. Sanne knew perfectly well that her interest in him was only that, interest, and would go nowhere. But that didn’t make her any _less_ interested.  
  
“So,” he said, “ghost boy?”  
  
Sanne blushed. She cleared her throat. “Some of us may have said something of that sort.”  
  
“He’s very pale,” Mister Fahey agreed. Though his Kerch was perfect, he had a mild accent. She wondered why he had left Novyi Zem.  
  
“Yes,” Sanne said, grateful for the excuse.  
  
“But that’s not what you meant.”  
  
“It… it is not, sir,” she admitted. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”  
  
“Of course you didn’t.”  
  
There was something they both weren’t saying, but she wasn’t sure what he wasn’t saying and she wasn’t sure how much he knew. It wasn’t that anyone really _disliked_ Mister Wylan, not as far as Sanne knew, and she wasn’t going to tell his man that he used to be a spoiled kid who didn’t realize he led a privileged life with nothing to be so mopey about.  
  
Instead, she blurted, “He’s a generous sort, isn’t he?”  
  
Mister Fahey gave her a measured look. “Yes…”  
  
“My cousin, she loves the library.”  
  
She gave him an even look, let the implication settle in.  
  
Mister Fahey nodded. “She’s welcome to use it. I’ll get you Wylan’s official word, but he won’t mind.”  
  
Agata yelped, drawing their attention sharply, but Jette and Sveta were there and soon enough the three were all laughing again. It was almost, Sanne thought, like they were friends already.


	30. Crop Rotation in the 14th Century

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a stand-alone fic about what Inej is doing in this chapter and shamelessly encourage everyone to check it out (alas, I do not have Leigh Bardugo's amazing ability to balance a story between so many characters, so rather than shoe-horn in an Inej chapter I set this one independent). Anyway, shameless self-promo: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950619
> 
> As for the chapter title, I... couldn't resist.

“…expecting a yield increase of 50% with the recent acquisitions. You will of course be kept apprised of any progress. September 31, quarterly report…”  
  
Jesper read documents with an obvious attempt to mask his boredom. Reports on the developments of the rye fields were dry and Wylan wished he hadn’t chosen to focus here, because it was obviously almost unbearably dull for Jesper.  
  
The trouble was… Wylan understood this part. His father had built a vast empire and had cut Wylan out of it years ago, and Wylan might not be useless but he wasn’t made for this, either. He didn’t grasp all the implications. He could see patterns but not plans.  
  
He remembered when he had assumed Kaz would funnel money to the Ravkans for the auction—helping the good guys win. That was their goal, right? Meanwhile Kaz had been playing one of his enemies against another to trick a third with a massive ruse to occupy the Council and another to tie up the city. He remembered that moment, when his father had realized what Kaz had done but Wylan hadn’t got there yet. It had only been a moment, but in that moment Wylan saw that Jan understood Kaz in a way Wylan never could.  
  
Understanding Kaz wasn’t his goal. Being a businessman was—and unlike Kaz, Wylan had no knack for it.  
  
So he kept to the tangible things, the ones he understood. Ships and their cargos. Fields and their harvests. Speculation and subterfuge would have to be left for someone else.  
  
“Do you need to stop?” Wylan asked the next time Jesper paused his reading.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
He should have known that would be the response.  
  
Wylan couldn’t push him to rest. He knew Jesper would just get stubborn. He also knew Jesper needed a break, whether or not he’d admit it.  
  
“I could use a break,” Wylan said. “If you don’t mind?”  
  
“Of course not.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Wylan still didn’t like the office. He would get used to it, he promised himself, and anyway they tended to wind up on the ground often enough that Wylan had brought some pillows in. For business reasons, of course. They did their best reading wrapped up in each other. Jesper was currently leaning back against Wylan, Wylan’s head resting on his shoulder and Wylan’s arms loosely settled around him. It almost made the quarterly reports bearable.  
  
Wylan kissed Jesper’s neck. With the height difference, it wasn’t often he got to be the one holding. Not that he minded being held, either.  
  
“You’re the best, you know.”  
  
“The best what, exactly, merchling?”  
  
“Just the best,” Wylan replied, unconcerned. “Best everything. Objectively the most amazing.”  
  
Something shifted in Jesper’s body language, something taking him from relaxed to tense, but Wylan had only a second to notice it. Then Jesper was moving away from Wylan as he asked, “What are you thinking?”  
  
“I’m not sure…”  
  
He shifted through the papers nearby. Aha! Here was what he needed, a map of the outlying farmlands.  
  
“I’m trying to have an idea.”  
  
“What does that mean?”  
  
“It means… I’m trying to think of something, I don’t know, something smart. Do you remember, about six years ago, did the ergot outbreak affect Novyi Zem?”  
  
“Maybe a little bit?”  
  
“It had a huge impact here. People died. Even with the crop rotations, we rely so heavily on rye. What if there were a way to shift to reliance on oats and potatoes instead?”  
  
“That’s ah… that’s weird, Wy,” Jesper admitted.  
  
“I know. And it’s big, and it might be crazy, but I’d like to dedicate at least one of our fields to a rotation excluding rye. As a test—of the rotation system, as well as how receptive the markets will be.”  
  
He willed the blush to stay off his face, though he felt it creeping, felt his own embarrassment to be proposing anything so forward. Anything at all, really. Wylan forced himself to keep his chin up and meet Jesper’s eyes, consciously fighting against the taught instinct to hide from his own audacity. He had said something _weird_. His well-taught brain insisted anything originating with him would have to be something _idiotic_ —but if he couldn’t stand by his ideas, no one would.  
  
Jesper slowly nodded. “I guess it makes sense. You’ll probably take a hit, fiscally, shouldn’t be too big though depending on how much land you use for this experiment. Let’s—”  
  
“Jesper! Wylan!”  
  
Both paused and traded surprised, mildly puzzled looks. Inej was known for her quietness. She was silent—a wraith.  
  
So why had she just shouted their names?  
  
They put the papers down and headed for the stairs as Inej called again:  
  
“Jesper! Wylan!”  
  
Her voice was bubbling.  
  
Approaching the foyer, Wylan realized why. Inej stood there, and with her were two people he had never seen before, but he knew, he hoped, he hoped larger than himself… the man with dark brown eyes just like hers, the woman with an angular face just like hers…  
  
She nodded.  
  
Inej even _looked_ different. She was smiling hugely and her eyes were sparkling.  
  
Wylan grinned. He knew how this happened—only Kaz could have been behind this. But when he came to haggle for the boat, Kaz hadn’t mentioned _this_. He hadn’t said that he was looking for her family.  
  
“Inej…”  
  
Wylan didn’t know what to say, so he hugged her. She returned the hug, holding tightly, and he found himself holding on just as tight to her. Inej deserved this. Inej—kind, wise, patient Inej, who had saved all of their lives—she deserved _everything_ , but this was a good start. This from Kaz, a gesture like that from Kaz because who else could it be from, it was a great start.  
  
When the hug broke, Wylan turned to her parents.  
  
“Mister and Missus Ghafa, it’s an honor,” he said, shaking their hands, possibly too enthusiastically.  
  
“Thank you,” Inej’s father said. He sounded puzzled. Wylan supposed that was fair.  
  
“You are friends with our daughter?” her mother asked.  
  
“I…”  
  
Wylan glanced at Inej. Was he her friend? Had he earned that?  
  
She laughed. He didn’t know that he had ever heard her laugh before. It sounded the way rain does on the roof outside when you’re warm and dry in bed.  
  
“Yes,” she told him. “This is Wylan and Jesper. Jes.” She motioned for him to join them, and for the first time Wylan realized Jesper had hung back.  
  
“It’s wonderful to meet you,” he said, likewise shaking their hands.  
  
Wylan gave him a curious look, but didn’t want to say anything in front of Inej and her parents.  
  
Instead, he asked, “Are you staying for dinner?”  
  
“Just for dinner?” Inej asked.  
  
“Oh! Of course, you’re welcome to stay here if you’d like! Inej, why don’t you show your parents to a guest room? Jesper and I will inform Miss Molenaar there will be two guests joining us.”  
  
“Why do you assume I know where all the guest rooms are?” Inej asked.  
  
Wylan rolled his eyes at her and they both laughed.  
  
He waited until Inej and her parents were upstairs, out of earshot, but reaching up to cup Jesper’s cheek.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
Something. He saw it in the dullness behind Jesper’s eyes, the way his smile didn’t reach them, the way he held himself too stiffly. Wylan let his gaze and his hand linger, because Jesper wasn’t pulling away, but he couldn’t see the problem. He didn’t know what to do to fix it.  
  
Wylan nodded. “If there’s anything I can do…”  
  
“I’m fine, Wylan.”  
  
“Okay.” Except his tone was serious and he had just said ‘Wylan’, and Jesper didn’t usually use Wylan’s name. “We’ll go talk to Miss Molenaar, right?”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“I can talk to her alone if—”  
  
“I said I’m fine.”  
  
Wylan wished he knew the right words to say, how to cut through whatever fog had settled over Jesper, but he didn’t know. Asking wasn’t helping.  
  
“Okay,” Wylan said, nodding. Jesper didn’t want it acknowledged, so they wouldn’t acknowledge that something was clearly going on—not until he had ideas how to help.  
  
“On second thought, I need a few minutes alone,” Jesper said, looking down at his feet.  
  
That was worse. He was so clearly hurting and there was nothing Wylan could do… but pushing Jesper didn’t help, so Wylan gave him his space.  
  
“Okay, Jes.”  
  
Wylan went to speak to Miss Molenaar, hating to leave Jesper when he clearly needed someone by his side, but seeing no alternative.  
  
He explained that they had two unexpected guests and saw the concern on her face.  
  
“I know this isn’t the first time,” he said, apologetic. First there had been Wylan, Jesper, and Inej, unexpectedly coming to live here; then his mama; now the Ghafas.  
  
“The markets are still mostly closed,” Miss Molenaar replied.  
  
“We don’t need… we don’t need much. It’s not a dinner party.”  
  
It was beginning to feel like it, though, and Wylan could not help but think that maybe one day, maybe a few years into the future, he would host his own dinner party. Himself; his back-from-the-dead mama; his boyfriend, formerly a gun for hire in the Barrel; speaking of the Barrel, its very own Bastard; a Suli family; a soldier from Ravka. What a crew his friends made!  
  
“Miss Molenaar, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your flexibility. Thank you.”  
  
She accepted his thanks, but Wylan knew she was still frustrated and he didn’t blame her. He recognized that she was doing her job with a number of challenging factors, and doing her job well nonetheless.  
  
There was little he could do to ease that particular job, too.  
  
He retrieved a wooden sphere from his pocket.  
  
“I found this the other day,” he explained. It was a puzzle, one that came apart into a dozen pieces, tricky to put back together. “I thought Gavrie might like it.”  
  
The look Miss Molenaar gave him spoke volumes about precisely how frustrating but nonetheless endearing Wylan was being. He couldn’t honestly say he was sorry. He had no control over the circumstances, but he would still do all he could to make this endurable.  
  
Wylan found his time disappearing swiftly.  
  
After he spoke to Miss Molenaar, he went to find Miss Meijer, who seemed less than thrilled at the prospect of Suli houseguests. An old woman with old views, he thought, making clear he expected his guests to be treated with respect.  
  
Hopefully that did not extend to all older women, though.  
  
He found his mother and Agata in the garden. Marya seemed to be warming up to the girl, and Agata was clearly more competent to care for her than Wylan had been. Wylan wasn’t sure exactly how, but his mother’s clothes looked better now and Agata had managed a winding braid even in her short hair. Wylan remembered how much better he had felt when he put on a clean shirt that fit him instead of the threadbare things he had worn in the Barrel; or when he slept in a real bed; or when he took a real, hot bath with as much soap as he wanted. Tidiness did wonders for a person’s state of mind.  
  
Agata greeted him with a warm smile. She had been reading and closed the book on her thumb, holding her place.  
  
“Good afternoon, Mister Van Eck.”  
  
“Good afternoon, Agata. Mama.”  
  
Wylan kissed his mother’s cheek, then crouched in front of her and took her hands.  
  
“How are you today?”  
  
“I’m well.”  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
“We should enroll you in university courses,” she said, and his heart sank. “You would be good at that. You’re a very clever boy.”  
  
Wylan smiled tightly. “I’m running the company now, remember?”  
  
“You should be with other young people.”  
  
“Mama—”  
  
“I am still your mother, Wylan.”  
  
“Of course,” he said. “Of course you are, but the semester’s already started. Maybe in the fall.”  
  
This seemed to satisfy her, and her expression relaxed. The fall, then. Maybe she would forget by that time. Or maybe Wylan would take a class to make her happy—they probably had music classes, didn’t they? He had never paid much attention to the university, knowing he would never be a student there, although he briefly imagined what it would be like if both he and Jesper enrolled in the fall—  
  
Not the time.  
  
“For now, I have my friends Jesper and Inej,” Wylan reminded Marya. “Mama, Inej’s parents are going to stay with us. Isn’t that wonderful?”  
  
Marya frowned. “The Suli girl.”  
  
“Yes, Mama. Her parents are staying here.”  
  
_Please,_ Wylan thought, not sure who he was addressing or how to put into words what he was asking for. He remembered that comment she had made once. It was unsettling enough for him to know she had those sorts of opinions.  
  
Then, with a nod, Marya said, “It is good you have friends now.”  
  
“Thank you. I’ll leave you and Agata to it, shall I?”  
  
Wylan left them in the garden, hearing as he walked away that Agata began reading again.  
  
He checked in with Inej that her parents understood about his mama, because she had seemed understanding but her mind wasn’t always what it had once been.  
  
That was a briefer visit. It was clearly that Inej wanted to be with her parents now and he didn’t want to interrupt their time.  
  
All the while, Wylan thought about crop rotations, and about how happy Inej had looked. He tried not to think about the prospect of her leaving, even though he had known it was coming. He tried not to think about the look on Jesper’s face, or the fact that he knew—had known for a while—that Jesper needed more than he was getting and Wylan didn’t know how to deliver it.  
  
Finally, Wylan found Jesper petting one of the horses. He insisted he liked working with them and Wylan believed him, and he was glad to see Jesper here. He could’ve—Wylan hadn’t thought Jesper was going to gamble, but he’d had the fear of it.  
  
“Hey, you,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper turned to him. “Hey.”  
  
_So, I’m an idiot_.  
  
Wylan knew Jesper didn’t want to talk about how he felt. He probably didn’t want to talk about seeing his friends happily reunited with their parents so soon after saying goodbye to his da, something Wylan thought he should have considered earlier.  
  
Last time Jesper was upset, he said he liked Wylan distracting him and making him feel safe. So that was what Wylan meant to do.  
  
“You know I’m awful at flirting?”  
  
Jesper nodded. “I’ve noticed that once or twice.”  
  
“We should kiss. I can’t flirt, so I thought I would just tell you. I want to kiss you.”  
  
Jesper raised an eyebrow. He looked less stressed now. He still looked unhappy and stubborn, but not aggressively miserable.  
  
“Well, I’m here. Go ahead.”  
  
The horse nudged Jesper’s shoulder.  
  
“Shh,” Jesper told the horse, “don’t worry. I still love you. He gets jealous,” he told Wylan. “But I have a lot of love to give. I love you even more.”  
  
“You, too. And your giant heart.”  
  
“That’s not the only thing that’s giant.”  
  
Wylan felt himself blushing. He felt his jaw drop. He wasn’t sure _why_ , that was a frequent sort of joke for Jesper to make—maybe because this one was especially crude. For a few moments, Wylan just froze. It wasn’t that any of the horses would care or anyone else had overheard the remark, it was just… it was so…  
  
“Are you kissing me or what?” Jesper asked.  
  
“I’m kissing you,” Wylan said.  
  
He had to stand on tiptoe to do it, and Jesper really wasn’t helping him any today; Wylan came very near to managing a kiss before he slipped. He tried not to fall onto Jesper and Jesper tried to catch him but Wylan was already falling backwards, landing hard.  
  
“Ow…”  
  
“That…” Jesper began. He cut himself off, trying and failing not to laugh. “That was a terrible kiss!” he cried, giving in and laughing.  
  
“Shut up,” Wylan groused.  
  
“Just terrible!”  
  
“Podge.”  
  
Wylan picked himself up out of the dirt. Jesper helped, commenting, “You’re too little to kiss.”  
  
“Stay right there,” Wylan said.  
  
“Bossy…”  
  
Wylan didn’t respond. He picked up a tack bucket, emptied it out, then set it upside down on the ground at Jesper’s feet and climbed onto it. Balanced carefully on the metal bucket, Wylan now stood even taller than Jesper.  
  
Grinning, he leaned in for a kiss.  
  
“You’re actually even more handsome from this angle,” Wylan observed, sliding an arm around Jesper’s shoulders. Jesper had an arm around Wylan’s waist.  
  
“I didn’t think I could be more handsome.”  
  
“Neither did I,” Wylan murmured. He kissed him again.  
  
“Know what though.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
Wylan didn’t need to ask—he knew Jesper was behind it when the tack bucket wobbled beneath his feet.  
  
“You wouldn’t!”  
  
Jesper grabbed Wylan tightly by the waist and kicked the bucket out from under him, sweeping Wylan into his arms in a way Wylan did _not_ appreciate. It was unfairly romantic. It was also terrifying and Wylan instinctively wrapped his arms around Jesper’s shoulders. He didn’t know how fear worked that he had survived the Barrel and the Ice Court and _still_ the sudden nothingness beneath his feet made his stomach lurch—but it did.  
  
“Let me down! This isn’t funny!”  
  
That would have carried more weight if Wylan had been able to say it without laughing.  
  
“It’s not funny!” he insisted.  
  
“Sure about that?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
“Are you—”  
  
Jesper didn’t finish asking the next question. Wylan wasn’t sure precisely what happened aside from the two of them both hitting the ground. He felt a few bruises forming already, but no major injuries; when asked, Jesper recounted the same.  
  
Since they were both fine, Wylan swept up a few stray bits of straw and tossed them at Jesper.  
  
“What was that for?” he asked, batting the straw away.  
  
“You dropped me! And now everyone will think we were…”  
  
Jesper grinned. Another time, Wylan would have minded, knowing what was coming—but he didn’t mind the joke tonight. He wouldn’t mind any joke that made Jesper grin like that.  
  
“We were what, sunshine?” Jesper asked.  
  
_Only_ because it made Jesper happy.  
  
“Um, tumbling,” Wylan mumbled.  
  
“We did _take a tumble_.”  
  
“I mean the other kind!”  
  
“What other kind?”  
  
“The… the other kind!”  
  
“What kind is that?”  
  
“Naked!” Wylan all but squeaked the word.  
  
He wasn’t as bashful as this, not really. He might not have the vocabulary to discuss it, and yes, he was a little embarrassed about intimate matters. He was embarrassed by how curious he was about intimate matters. He was just this side of mortified at the thought of being seen naked.  
  
But he could actually say the word ‘naked’ without blushing, if he so chose.  
  
_Jesper so obviously liked it_ , he liked needling Wylan, he liked making him blush. Wylan liked being needled. He no longer felt made fun of; he felt like he was part of the joke now. He felt like he was helping tell the jokes, even, by providing the set-up. So he played up his innocence like he was asking Jesper to tell another joke.  
  
Jesper pulled him close and kissed him.  
  
There was that, too.  
  
“We could correct that misconception,” Jesper murmured.  
  
“That would be a little suspicious,” Wylan pointed out, “just telling people we weren’t naked.”  
  
“Mmm, it would. Be easier to just get naked.”  
  
“Jesper!” Wylan yelped, this time not even remotely faking the shock. They were on the dirt floor of a _stable_! Apparently this was hilarious to Jesper. Wylan did not find it amusing. He just settled against Jesper, happy beside him, embarrassing jokes aside.  
  
Now that Jesper sounded happier, Wylan wanted to ask what had been wrong earlier. He wanted to understand; he wanted to know how he could help. That wasn’t what Jesper wanted right now. So Wylan sat with him, leaning against the door to an empty stall, and tap-tap-tapped his thigh.  
  
“Why do you do that?” Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan withdrew his hand.  
  
“I’m not complaining, I just want to know why.”  
  
He gnawed his thumb, then caught himself and lowered his hands to his lap.  
  
“I,” Wylan began, then paused. If he could say it, he would have.  
  
“Forget I asked, it doesn’t matter—”  
  
“No, it does, I—sometimes I want to tell you something and the words…”  
  
“Get mixed up?” Jesper suggested.  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
“You want to tell me something?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Is it always the same thing?”  
  
“It is. I wish I could write you letters. Maybe it would be easier, sometimes I feel like I can’t put the words together trying to speak. Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He imagined what writing might be like sometimes, but he couldn’t actually do it. He imagined it was like speaking, only slower. Like drawing, but less precise. “Jesper, I’ve been trying to find ways to—maybe to tell you, to remind you I…”  
  
He couldn’t say it. No matter how much he wished, he didn’t know how to say it.  
  
“The drawings,” Jesper said.  
  
“Like the drawings.”  
  
“I like them.”  
  
“You do?” Wylan sounded far more eager than he wanted to.  
  
Jesper laughed. “Yeah, cupcake, I do.”  
  
Wylan could help his indignation: “Cupcake?!”  
  
“Cupcake,” Jesper insisted. He sounded happy, cautiously happy, just how Wylan felt right now.  
  
So he pressed the point. If talking about this new and utterly absurd nickname would make Jesper happy, they could talk about it forever.  
  
“In what way am I like a cupcake?”  
  
“You’re small and sweet and perfect for dessert.”  
  
Wylan didn’t even know what that meant, only that it made him blush.  
  
Jesper drew a folded piece of paper from his pocket and showed it to Wylan. The drawing he found that morning was a picture of boots—Jesper’s boots, that straight-across-the-top way he laced them and the familiar scuffs. Wylan looked at the drawing, then Jesper’s boots on his feet. Not a bad likeness.  
  
“I got this one today… oh, and your hair is like frosting,” Jesper said, plucking at Wylan’s curls.  
  
Wylan laughed. “You’ve gone too far this time!” he cried.  
  
Jesper pressed a kiss to his temple, and it was the sort of little affection Wylan lived for.  
  
“I love you,” he blurted out before the happy feeling could fade.  
  
Jesper was, momentarily, still. “What?”  
  
“I love you. That’s what it means.”  
  
Saying so shouldn’t have made Wylan’s heart race, but it did. He looked at the horses, the door, his feet, before finally looking to Jesper to gauge his reaction.  
  
“Why can’t you just say that? You _don’t_ say that, mostly I say it and you say ‘you too’ or something.”  
  
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Wylan admitted. He had been trying to understand the things that stood between them. A lot of those things, ironically, were woven into his brain and this was one. “This is going to sound stupid, but when I say that, people tend to leave. My parents. My… there were a couple of nannies I really cared about. I know that sounds—”  
  
Jesper silenced Wylan with two fingers across his lips.  
  
“No more ‘this sounds stupid’,” Jesper said.  
  
Wylan heard how privileged and spoilt he sounded, but it was true. He had loved his father, and his father only ever used that against him. He had loved his mother… he still loved his mother, but he knew she might never be the same. He remembered being small, being cuddled on a nanny’s lap; he remembered saying he loved her and believing it. And he remembered realizing he had only ever been a job.  
  
He nodded, careful not to knock aside Jesper’s fingers. It did sound stupid, though, and Wylan hated it. He wanted to tell Jesper he loved him, he _knew_ he loved Jesper. He wasn’t sure he should, it had only been a few weeks, but in those weeks they had been next to each other nearly all day every day. Maybe it was silly, but it was true.  
  
So _why was he too broken to say it?_ And why had something that was supposed to be about Jesper turned into another conversation about Wylan and his brokenness?  
  
Jesper moved his hand from Wylan’s mouth to his chin, tilted his head up and kissed him.  
  
“Tell me however you want,” Jesper said. “And as frequently as you want.”  
  
“I’ll try to say the words.”  
  
“I can wait.”  
  
Wylan took Jesper’s hand and kissed his knuckles three times. He could do this—it meant just as much to him as saying the words, and Jesper knew, too.  
  
They sat together for a while. They didn’t talk. Jesper carded his fingers through Wylan’s hair, stroked his hands, laced their fingers together. Wylan didn’t resist. He liked the more heated things they did together, but he liked this, too, the quiet, calm petting. Jesper seemed calmer, though the corner of his mouth twitched down in a way that reminded Wylan of that night at the Geldrenner after Jesper had fought with Kaz and had a difficult discussion with Colm and… what happened with Kuwei. Wylan was glad he could help this time.  
  
“Excuse me, Mister Wylan, Mister Fahey.”  
  
They both turned toward the door. Wylan scrambled to sit up straight.  
  
“Yes, what is it, Sanne?”  
  
“It’s nearly time for dinner, Miss Molenaar asked me to tell you.”  
  
“Thank you, we’re on our way.”  
  
When she was gone, Wylan scooted away from Jesper to stretch out the soreness he suddenly felt in his limbs.  
  
“You shouldn’t let people call you that,” Jesper said.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Either you’re Wylan or you’re Mister Van Eck. You’re running the company—”  
  
“ _We’re_ running the company.”  
  
“We’re running the company,” Jesper ceded, “but no one’s calling me ‘Mister Jesper’.”  
  
Wylan nodded, because it was true, but he would feel even more childish asking people to call him Mister Van Eck. _Would you treat me like an adult?_ What a way to say you weren’t one!  
  
“Anyway, let’s head in. Maybe we can sneak past everyone and get cleaned up before dinner.”  
  
In the pause that followed, Wylan had the distinct sense that Jesper might whine at him, and with a sinking feeling he saw Jesper’s hands on his guns. Sitting still was not Jesper’s strength but usually he had a little more patience. He was really missing Colm, wasn’t he?  
  
Wylan opened his mouth to say that Jesper didn’t have to join them.  
  
Jesper was quicker.  
  
“It’s not too bad.” He pulled a few bits of straw from Wylan’s hair.  
  
They picked themselves up and brushed themselves off. As they headed back inside, Wylan wished not for the first time that he knew what to say to make Jesper feel better. Jesper would have known how to make Wylan feel better… but Wylan worried mentioning Jesper’s da would only hurt him, that saying he was proud of him would seem silly even if it was true. He just hated when Jesper couldn’t smile.  
  
Unable to think of what to say, Wylan tapped Jesper’s hand three times.  
  
Jesper squeezed his hand in response.  
  
They could not sneak past everyone. In fact, Marya and the Ghafas waited at the table… and it looked like a very different table. Since Marya came home, she and Wylan sat on one side of the table, Wylan opposite Jesper and Marya opposite Inej when she chose to join them. Two chairs had been added now. Inej stood at the foot of the table, clearly intending to sit between her parents, and Marya was beside Inej’s mother.  
  
Which put Jesper beside Inej’s father.  
  
And Wylan…  
  
He froze.  
  
_Too stupid to write your own name. Too lazy to even try._  
  
Wylan knew it wasn’t happening now, he knew, but his heart still felt the fear and humiliation like his father was standing here in front of everyone and…  
  
He swallowed, his throat so tight the action hurt.  
  
They had moved the chair. It was a little thing, but it was enough. Now there was a chair at the head of the table.  
  
_Bad enough to have the mind of an infant, must you snivel like one, too?_  
  
A shiver passed through him.  
  
That chair wasn’t waiting for Jan Van Eck. It was waiting for Wylan. He knew that, he knew, but it brought back those memories.  
  
_You are a stain on my good name._  
  
Jesper pulled him back. Marya and the Ghafas had been chatting pleasantly about… Wylan wasn’t even sure. They hadn’t noticed Jesper and Wylan, so no one had seen Wylan freeze.  
  
“Wylan.”  
  
He nodded. “I’m fine.”  
  
“You don’t have to sit there. We can get one of the leaves, it’s—”  
  
“No,” Wylan said. “No, I can do this—but thank you for trying to save me again.”  
  
Mentally he was kicking himself for being so weak—couldn’t he go five minutes without needing Jesper to rescue him?—but Wylan resolved that he could and would do this.  
  
“Right. Mark, set, go.”  
  
“Oh, is our friend joining us?” Jesper asked.  
  
Wylan laughed and kissed him, this time without falling over, and they joined the others in the dining room.  
  
“I’m so sorry we’ve kept you waiting!” Wylan said, taking his seat at the head of the table. And the walls didn’t fall down. The earth didn’t pitch. His father did not spring from the doorway to throw Wylan to the floor for his presumptuousness.  
  
Jesper sat beside him. Under the table, Wylan reached for his hand.  
  
“Are you enjoying Ketterdam, Mister and Missus Ghafa?” Wylan asked.  
  
Inej translated into Suli.  
  
She had to translate parts of her father’s answer, too, though Wylan could guess the gist: Ketterdam was fine, they were just happy to have their daughter back.  
  
Under the table, Jesper squeezed Wylan’s hand three times.


	31. Little Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Wylan sings in this chapter is ‘Einini’, an Irish Gaelic lullaby. I know Llewellyn is a Welsh name, but there's also a lot of imagery associated with Pekka Rollins that suggests Ireland, so I'm going with the Wandering Isle being a mix.

Jesper made it through dinner with Inej and her parents, managing to smile for most of it, telling a few jokes to make Inej sigh and Wylan blush. He felt the smile on his face, he forced his eyes to show it, but it wasn’t real. It hurt to smile that way—but Inej was so happy and Wylan was reaching for Jesper’s hand, and he wanted that. He wanted Inej to be happy; he wanted Wylan reaching for him. He wanted to be happy.  
  
It was exhausting. And it was futile. When Inej had said good night and gone to spend more of the evening with her parents, and Marya’s mind was slipping so Wylan and Agata helped her to bed, Jesper was alone.  
  
He didn’t fault his friends.  
  
He knew Wylan would join him before long.  
  
That didn’t change the fact that he was alone _now_.  
  
Jesper toyed with his guns, but that only made him feel worse. Wasn’t like there was anything to shoot, anyway.  
  
He didn’t want to be this way, and he definitely didn’t want to be seen this way. Jesper wanted to be the fun guy. He wanted to be the person everyone went to for a laugh. He wanted to be as strong as Wylan thought he was.  
  
He wanted this all to disappear. Feeling this low was especially painful against the memory of the constant excitement of a night at the tables, the slowing clicks of Makker’s Wheel raising the adrenaline in his body until he was even less able to sit still, a thousand seconds of average excitement crammed into one…  
  
Jesper shut himself in the washroom. This was nowhere close to what he wanted. He wanted to shoot at something. He wanted to count his kruge and lose it. He wanted Wylan in ways Wylan wasn’t ready for—and he was just as ashamed of that, because he could and would wait, but he couldn’t make himself not want. But if he couldn’t stop his mind racing and his emotions from whatever the hell they were doing, at least he could do something physically pleasant.  
  
He ran a bath, tossing in a splash of that ridiculously expensive oil that made him smell like roses—there was a lot to like about the Barrel, but that didn’t mean Jesper wanted to maintain the same hygiene standards.  
  
The bath helped for a while. It relaxed his muscles, tricked his mind into thinking it ought to relax too. For a while. But even once the water started to cool, the idea of leaving… Jesper slipped under the water. There was something wonderfully distracting about the rushing noise of water filling his ears, and an unnerving sense of isolation once it settled. He didn’t stay down long.  
  
“Jesper, are you okay?”  
  
“Fine, just having a bath!” he called back.  
  
“You’ve been in there a while.”  
  
“It’s a nice bath,” he reasoned. Then, “Wy, guess what!”  
  
“What?” Wylan called.  
  
“I’m naked!”  
  
He didn’t have to see Wylan to know he was blushing.  
  
“But—you—you’re—of course you are!” Wylan spluttered. “You’re in the bath!”  
  
“ _Naked_ in the bath!” Jesper retorted.  
  
For a few seconds, he was smiling. He enjoyed the exchange. The trouble was what came next. They had stopped talking to one another, leaving him alone with his thoughts… his feelings.  
  
Jesper returned to his sulk, knowing he had bought himself some uninterrupted time. He wished he knew what he wanted other than not to think what he was about to think, not to feel what he was feeling. Other than a spin at the wheel, other than a line of shots, other than someone’s bed—other than _not this_. Other than just making it stop.  
  
In a bid to distract himself, and because he needed to do it anyway, Jesper got to the business of actually washing. He found himself all too easily distracted. Scrubbed one arm. Got distracted picking a cuticle.  
  
He didn’t know how long he sat there before the next interruption.  
  
“Jes?”  
  
His name, and a tentative knock on the door. Wylan was checking up on him again. He wanted to say, _shove off, I’m fine, I can take care of myself._ He wanted to say, _come in, I need you_. He wanted to say, _I’m almost finished,_ like he wasn’t feeling this right now. Like he wasn’t feeling anything. He wanted not to be feeling anything.  
  
“Yeah,” he called. Neutral.  
  
“Can I come in?” Wylan asked.  
  
Jesper considered. He still didn’t know if he wanted that.  
  
“You know I’m still naked, right?”  
  
“Yes. I… I thought you might… you’ve been in there for almost two hours. Do you want me to come in?”  
  
Two hours? How had that happened?  
  
Jesper sighed. He didn’t know. He wanted to be the part of himself that would want Wylan to come in, that would take one look at those sweet blue eyes watching at him like he put the stars in the sky and forget to hurt. He wanted to be, but he wasn’t, not now.  
  
“You can come in.”  
  
He didn’t look up, though. He just didn’t know. So he stayed where he was, his arms looped loosely around his bony knees, trying to ignore the chill in the water.  
  
Ma would have heated it by snapping her fingers. But Jesper couldn’t do that.  
  
“Jes?” Wylan asked again.  
  
Jesper didn’t look at him and didn’t answer.  
  
“Do you want me to wash your back?”  
  
Of everything he could have said, that was… not what Jesper expected. It surprised him enough to break the cycle of his thoughts. Though he still wasn’t sure what to say, he nodded.  
  
Wylan knelt by the tub, out of eyeshot. That was better—less complicated.  
  
“This water’s cold.”  
  
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” It didn’t sound funny. It sounded mean. Jesper didn’t mean that…  
  
Wylan was gentle with the flannel. He was right that the water was cold, but Jesper still appreciated the interaction. He appreciated the sensation, feelings instead of words. He wasn’t ready for words. Just small touches, soft cloth and the slip of fingertips, water sliding down his shoulders.  
  
“I miss my ma.”  
  
“Oh, Jesper—”  
  
Saints, why had he said that?  
  
“You couldn’t wait to see me naked, could you?” Jesper tried—and failed—to tease.  
  
“Jes.”  
  
“Just shut up and enjoy the view, Wylan.”  
  
He didn’t like the tone he was using, didn’t like the words he was saying, didn’t like that he meant them—but he did. He meant them. Every time Wylan spoke, the sound reverberated through the pain Jesper was trying to keep silent inside himself. It made him hurt again. And he didn’t want to hurt. He just didn’t want to hurt.  
  
Wylan kissed his shoulder so gently Jesper half believed he imagined it. The touch sent a shiver through him. His eyes prickled, half-tearing.  
  
“I’m getting out of the bath, you might want to leave.”   
  
“Okay.”  
  
Wylan set the flannel on the side of the tub and left.  
  
Jesper had to move now, had to get out of the tub, and it was like nettles under his skin. Like jagged-edged marbles jangling. He felt the gathering tears at the base of his throat, the need to let go. On top of missing his parents, now he had been harsh with Wylan. He hadn’t wanted to be a disappointment to anyone else, maybe he had messed up as a son but he’d been a good boyfriend. Had been, anyway.  
  
He dried off and pulled on the same set of clothes. This would be a perfect time to just pull on his undershorts and get in bed. He wouldn’t necessarily need to say anything to Wylan, who was like everything good in a stuffed animal and then some, who would understand, albeit possibly slowly, that Jesper just needed him to shush and be held right now. That he needed someone to hold onto.  
  
Instead he stepped into the bedroom, held Wylan’s gaze for several seconds, then started for the bedroom door.  
  
He paused when he got there.  
  
Turned.  
  
“Aren’t you going to say anything?”  
  
Wylan shook his head. His blue eyes were wounded, filled with worry, of course they were, but he shook his head.  
  
“Don’t do that! Don’t be afraid of me!”  
  
Jesper knew he wasn’t helping his case any by letting his frustration get the better of him. He just wanted Wylan to get angry. He couldn’t walk out knowing Wylan was… was looking that way at the space he left… he couldn’t! But he couldn’t stay here! All that frustration narrowed to a knifepoint, narrowed on Wylan. Wylan was standing between him and leaving, even though Jesper had his back right up against the door.  
  
“I’m not afraid,” Wylan said. His voice was steady, though he raised his chin the way he did when he had doubts. “I’m not going to stop you. I lost my mother, too, and I thought she was gone forever. I remember how much it hurt. And… if this makes your pain less, then go. Just come home. When you’re ready, come home to me.”  
  
“Saints, you podge,” Jesper spat softly. “You… you… _saints_ …”  
  
Didn’t Wylan know he was meant to argue? He was meant to say _don’t_ , or _you don’t need this,_ or something else that was entirely untrue to Jesper’s experience. He was meant to say something so Jesper could leave without thinking of the hurt in his eyes.  
  
“It’s okay, Jes.” Wylan took a few small steps closer.  
  
Jesper nodded, rocking on his heels slightly.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
Another step. Another.  
  
Jesper pulled him the last couple of feet. Pulled him close and held him tight and fervently wished their height difference were less because as cute as Wylan looked standing up on tiptoe to kiss him, right now Jesper wanted a shoulder to hide his face in and he _didn’t have one_.  
  
“Screw you.”  
  
For being small, for being here, for being… for being… for…  
  
“ _Screw you_ , screw you.”  
  
For seeing him like this, for being the pebble to start the avalanche…  
  
“Come sit down,” Wylan said. “Come on. It’s okay. You’re okay.”  
  
“I hate this.”  
  
“I know, sweetheart.”  
  
Of course when he finally managed an endearment it was the sort someone’s great-gran would use.  
  
“I hate it.”  
  
“I know, just come sit down,” he said, guiding Jesper to the bed. “Here we go.”  
  
Jesper let Wylan nudge him in the right direction. Obligingly thumped down on the bed, hugged a pillow. It wasn’t what he wanted. It was cold and limp and lifeless. Didn’t have curls to put his hands in. He toyed with the edges of it, then pressed it over his wet face, vaguely aware of Wylan removing his shoes and socks.  
  
“I miss her so much.”  
  
“I know. I know.”  
  
Wylan sat down next to him. Jesper threw the pillow aside and half-fell across Wylan’s lap.  
  
“Everyone else!” Jesper cried.  
  
Wylan hugged Jesper. Kissed his temple.  
  
“Everyone else’s parents came back.”  
  
“It’s not fair.”  
  
Jesper nodded. He was crying heavily. He hated it. This was so far from who and what Jesper wanted to be. He was Jesper Fahey, the fun guy, the guy whose arrival heralded the start of the party. He was a good boyfriend who could be strong so Wylan didn’t always have to. He made people laugh. He couldn’t focus unless it was on games or fights or a partner or this pain.  
  
Tears and snot and half-desperate howls.  
  
He missed her so much, and even though he was an entirely different person now, a criminal, a university dropout, even though, in his mind he still almost believed he was a little boy again and could open his eyes and Ma would be there and she would wake up this time…  
  
“I miss her! I miss her, I just… want…”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
“No…”  
  
It wasn’t.  
  
“She would be so proud of you, Jesper.”  
  
_No,_ he thought, _she wouldn’t_.  
  
“I don’t… want… you…”  
  
That wasn’t what he meant to say. Vaguely, Jesper knew he was hysterical. Less vaguely, he knew that wasn’t what he meant to say.  
  
“I want—I want my da.”  
  
He wanted _Kaz_.  
  
If he couldn’t have his da to make him feel safe, he wanted Kaz to make him put these feelings away. Kaz wouldn’t stand for this. Jesper didn’t want it… he wanted someone to make this stop.  
  
He wanted Kaz to hold him, even knowing he wouldn’t.  
  
Saints, what was _wrong_ with him, but he wanted that Bastard…  
  
“I’m sorry. He’s not here.”  
  
Da. Wylan still thought he wanted Da.  
  
Which was also true.  
  
“I know that!”  
  
“But he loves you!” Wylan hurriedly added. “Your da loves you so much. He loves you for everything you are.”  
  
That didn’t help. It made everything so much worse. If it was true, it meant Da loved him as a failure, as a disappointment. And that wasn’t what Jesper wanted to be. That wasn’t the son he wanted his da to have.  
  
Jesper cried until he didn’t have the energy to continue.  
  
“I’ll be right back, okay?” Wylan asked, rubbing Jesper’s back.  
  
Jesper didn’t answer, but Wylan left him, anyway. Jesper thumped onto his side. He sniffled miserably. He was done crying now, but he only felt worse—horrible and tired. It was just, he felt more exhausted than in pain.  
  
As promised, Wylan was back a moment later.  
  
“Try to sit up.”  
  
Jesper grunted in objection. He was already lying down on the bed. Couldn’t he just fall asleep here?  
  
“Please try? For me?”  
  
He didn’t, but when Wylan pushed his shoulders up, Jesper managed to halfway sit, a disproportionate amount of his weight on Wylan’s shoulders.  
  
“Drink.” Wylan brought a glass to Jesper’s lips and coaxed some water down his throat. “Thank you. Wish I had some cookies for you…”  
  
“Yeah, you’re miserable at this,” Jesper grumbled. He wasn’t sure if he should be insulted that Wylan thought sweets would cheer him up or chalk that one down to Wylan’s inexperience, and he was too tired to decide right now.  
  
Wylan stood, kissed Jesper’s forehead, and handed him a handkerchief. “You might want to clean your face up, you’re kind of…”  
  
Yeah. Jesper cleaned his face while Wylan started to unbutton Jesper’s shirt.  
  
“Getting you undressed for bed, okay?”  
  
“You just want to see me without my shirt on again.”  
  
“Your handsomeness is an advantage.”  
  
“Wylan?”  
  
“I’m here.”  
  
Wylan nudged the shirt off his shoulders. Jesper took over the job from there.  
  
“I didn’t mean what I said.”  
  
Wylan paused, then shook his head. “You were hurting.”  
  
“It still hurts.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“This isn’t how I wanted the first time you took my trousers off.”  
  
Wylan kissed Jesper. It was a terrible kiss. It was an awkward, hesitant, questioning kiss. But Jesper wouldn’t be the one to say so.  
  
“Um—you, um, you look cold. Why don’t you get under the covers?”  
  
That was good advice. Jesper shifted, pulled the quilt up over himself.  
  
“I’m still cold,” he complained. “I need you.”  
  
“I’m just going to get changed.”  
  
Entirely too much time passed. Jesper listened to the sounds of Wylan’s footsteps, fabric shifting, running water.  
  
“Do you think you can drink a little more?”  
  
Jesper groaned. Soreness was already setting in; he just wanted to stay under the covers and sleep… but Wylan had asked nicely and now that the immediacy of his pain had diminished that mattered, so Jesper pushed himself up on one elbow and accepted the glass. He drained it in one long sip.  
  
“Thank you,” Wylan said, taking the empty glass and setting it aside.  
  
Jesper huffed and settled back against the pillows. “What’re you thanking me for?”  
  
“Taking care of someone important to me.”  
  
Wylan turned out the lights and crawled into bed. He snuggled close and put his arms around Jesper; Jesper nuzzled against Wylan’s chest.  
  
“I miss her, Wy.”  
  
“I know. I know you do.”  
  
“I’m happy for you and Inej, I just—it just hurts to be the only one who… everyone else’s mother came back.”  
  
That didn’t sound right. Jesper knew it didn’t—he wasn’t hurting because his friends had their parents again but for what he had lost and could never regain.  
  
“It’s not fair,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper didn’t answer.  
  
That was true and it didn’t make anything better.  
  
“Do you want to tell me about her?” Wylan asked.  
  
It was the sort of thing Wylan would have wanted; Wylan liked talking through his challenges. Jesper wasn’t that way. He didn’t want to lean into this, he wanted it to just go away.  
  
He didn’t want to think about all the time he spent with her. He didn’t want to think about tagging along beside Ma, awed, consistently, by everything she did. He didn’t want to think about all the time he spent copying her. How he used to follow after her, picking up the pieces of chores—the kindling when she would be chopping wood, imaginary leftover dust when she dusted. It didn’t matter how ordinary the task, she made it glow.  
  
Jesper didn’t like remembering those things. He certainly didn’t want to talk about them. He just wanted to feel better.    
  
“Do you know any Kaelish songs?” he asked.  
  
Wylan was quiet a moment, then he began to sing softly, “Éiníní éiníní codalaígí…”  
  
His pronunciation left something to be desired and the tune wasn’t quite how Jesper had learned it, but it was still comforting to hear the familiar lullaby. It unwound some of the day and tension from his body, let everything keeping him awake drop away. He had exactly enough presence of mind left to murmur his thanks, then he let it drop and drifted off.


	32. Lij

Jesper woke up sore. His eyes and throat ached from last night’s crying jag. The pain that had knocked him over to begin with was diminished. It was still there. It was just the usual background murmurs.   
  
“Wy?” he asked softly.   
  
“Yes?”  
  
“You’re awake.”  
  
“I am,” Wylan confirmed. He rested his hand against Jesper’s back and tapped out their code. “How are you feeling?”  
  
“Not terrible. Not my best.”  
  
“Is there anything you want me to do?”  
  
Jesper wanted to say he didn’t know. He didn’t know what would make this better. _Look the other way. Don’t get all damp-eyed on me when I go out to play a few hands. Find me a job, an adventure, something with shots to fire._ Jesper liked what he got last night, but he hadn’t got what he needed. He hadn’t been allowed to forget.  
  
He heard, too, how much Wylan was offering. Wylan had basically learned to look after himself, but Jesper knew that was only against the people he liked or disliked. When he loved someone, he still had no limits. It was why he ran himself so hard trying to help Marya even when she didn’t recognize him, why he still found new ways to excuse Jan—and it was in his voice now.  
  
Jesper needed that. He needed to hear how much he mattered to Wylan.  
  
All Jesper could think of was, “Just treat today like normal.”  
  
“Okay,” Wylan agreed. “I need to visit the rye fields near Lij. I want you to come with me.”  
  
That was hardly the distraction Jesper wanted, but it was what he had asked for—normal. So he nodded.   
  
“I need to take care of a few things first.”  
  
Jesper nodded. He was sure Wylan needed to double-check the maps and make sure his mother would be okay.  
  
“Jes?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You have to let go.”  
  
Jesper realized he must have slept this way, his arms wrapped around Wylan. Realizing made him understand the prospect of letting go. It was an unappealing one. He was quite happy with his merchling held close and his face buried in said merchling’s chest.  
  
He preferred _not_ to let go, in fact, but knew he had agreed to, so he prolonged this moment just a little bit.  
  
“Pay the toll.”  
  
“I love you to the moon and back,” Wylan replied without missing a beat.  
  
Everything in Jesper turned warm and soft and wobbly. Wylan said it. Out loud. In words.   
  
Jesper let go.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Wylan scooted away, but leaned down to kiss Jesper before going to get dressed. Jesper rolled onto his back. He supposed he should get up, too.  
  
Lij.   
  
Where was that, exactly? Jesper remembered reading about the rye fields. The harvest was a few months away. He wondered if Wylan even knew what a healthy field ought to look like, if he had been to farms. That didn’t seem like the sort of thing Jan Van Eck would have valued.  
  
Jesper didn’t realize he had drifted off until Wylan shook him awake.  
  
“Jesper?”  
  
“Yes…”  
  
“Can you get up and get dressed for Lij?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“There’s a cup of tea on the nightstand.”  
  
Jesper nodded.  
  
After a long pause, Wylan asked, “Jesper?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Maybe sometime soon?”  
  
Jesper groaned in objection. He reached out a hand to Wylan, but when Wylan took it, Jesper tugged him down onto the bed. He felt a brief jolt of fear as he did—it was forward, it was physical, and although he had meant it in play, Jesper only realized when Wylan was already falling that he might have gone too far. To anyone else, this could be play… but to someone with Wylan’s history…  
  
But Wylan yelped and laughed, and the fear passed.   
  
Jesper tossed the covers over Wylan and pulled him close. Wylan was dressed and there was something different in the feeling of a crisp shirt pinned between them instead of a nightshirt, something _wrong_ in all the most delightful ways.  
  
“Jesper!” Wylan objected, laughing as he did. “Let go!”  
  
“Nope.”  
  
Wylan squirmed and tried to pull away, which only made Jesper hold him tighter. Wylan couldn’t play poker to save his life—even Jesper could read his body language. He was glad for that. He was glad he could tell when Wylan was playing, like he was now, and when he really needed something.  
  
Jesper kissed his neck. “You, beautiful, are my captive.”  
  
“Is that right?”  
  
“Mmhmm. You have to do what I say or I’ll never let you go.”  
  
Wylan giggled. “Got it. Ignore everything you tell me to do.”  
  
Oh, a challenge! Jesper liked a challenge. He pulled Wylan closer.  
  
“Ah!”  
  
“Sorry!” Jesper drew back.  
  
“No, it’s not you,” Wylan assured him. “It’s not.” He pulled up his shirt to show bruising on his side.  
  
Jesper had seen worse. Bruises stood out against Wylan’s pale skin, but still Jesper knew he had seen considerably worse, taken considerably worse. It was different on Wylan. Jesper had come to think of the smaller boy as his—and if someone was leaving bruises on him, it ought to be Jesper, and only after Wylan gave permission.  
  
“You can tell Thijs to go easy on you,” Jesper pointed out.  
  
Wylan shook his head. “I don’t want him to go easy. I want him to teach me to fight.” He might as well have read Jesper’s thoughts for what he said next: “Don’t say anything to him. I need to learn—I _am_ learning. And I trust Thijs. It’s going to take time for me to earn the guards’ loyalty, it helps for him to see me get up when I’m knocked down.”  
  
Jesper hadn’t considered it that way. Maybe taking pain wasn’t the best strength, but it was a strength Wylan had. Jesper couldn’t fault him for using it.  
  
“Promise you’ll tell me if I’m being too rough.”  
  
“I promise. You’re not, though—you’ve never hurt me, Jes. Anyway you’re supposed to be giving me instructions to ignore so you’ll hold me forever,” Wylan reminded him, and with that they were back to their game!  
  
“Stop being adorable,” Jesper said. He put his arms around Wylan more carefully this time, avoiding the bruises.  
  
“Unfair, that’s subject.”  
  
“Shh, captives don’t set the rules. Stop being adorable or you’re mine forever.”  
  
Wylan couldn’t stop laughing. “Nooo!” he pretended to object. “Anything but a lifetime with the most wonderful, caring, handsome man on the planet! Anything else! I can’t bear to wake up next to him every morning and start the day so happy!”  
  
“Okay, Wy—”  
  
“No, no, you don’t understand! Every moment is wonderful, but I’m still looking forward to the next. Waking up next to you is amazing but first thing in the morning I’m already looking forward to going to bed with you in the evening and spending the night with you, just to wake up the next morning. I’ve been happier in two weeks with you than the previous almost-sixteen years. It’s overwhelming!”  
  
Jesper sighed. He pulled away, nudged Wylan onto his back, and kissed him.  
  
“You’re awful at this game,” Jesper informed Wylan. “That was not an opportunity to tell me how happy I make you.”  
  
“I’m not sorry.”  
  
And then Wylan did that thing.  
  
That completely unfair thing.  
  
He looked up at Jesper with such adoration, such unfettered love and trust—people didn’t _do_ that. There was nothing held back. Jesper felt what happened to Wylan when he was upset and Jesper pulled him into the sort of hug that shielded him from the rest of the world. He didn’t just relax, he practically liquefied. It wasn’t something Wylan could physically do, but in that look, Jesper felt cradled. It was the protection and balm he most needed.  
  
That look, and that _sass_ , Saints, this boy was perfect.  
  
Jesper could feel how hugely he was grinning. “You’re in rare form this morning.”  
  
The blush preceded the comment, an advanced warning that made Jesper’s heart speed up in eager anticipation. After a few seconds Wylan stammered out: “You like my form.”  
  
Jesper laughed so hard he actually shook. He pulled Wylan close again.  
  
“It’s perfect. Just like the rest of you.”  
  
After a quiet moment, Wylan asked, “Are we going to Lij?”  
  
Jesper sighed.  
  
“It’s not that I don’t love having you mostly naked in my bed,” he said, his blush visibly heating.  
  
“All right,” Jesper ceded. “For you.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Wylan started to leave the bed, but paused, turned back to Jesper and said, “I meant what I said. I’ve never been as happy before as I am with you.”  
  
There were two sides to it. Jesper knew it was supposed to be a compliment. He knew that over the past weeks, he had come to not only enjoy Wylan’s company, but trust him with the real vulnerabilities. Wylan was someone he could go to and say, _I need you to just be with me,_ and Wylan would do it without question, and Jesper would feel better. Yes, he wanted to be the reason Wylan was happy—but Wylan had little frame of reference.  
  
“What are you thinking?” Wylan asked. Before Jesper could make up a lie or distract him with a flirtatious joke, he said, “Tell me.”  
  
So Jesper did.  
  
“You’ve never been happy at all.”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “That doesn’t change how happy I am with you. Now come on, drink your tea and put some clothes on. I really must get to Lij today.”  
  
Jesper was tempted to just… refuse. If he refused, he wondered if Wylan would go to Lij without him.  
  
Oh, who was he kidding? If he refused, Wylan would spend all day cuddling him and bringing him cups of tea and whatever else he asked for; giving him wide-eyed, worried looks and shy, artless kisses. Jesper would enjoy that.  
  
He got up and went to get dressed.   
  
This was the sort of thing Jesper meant when he told himself Wylan deserved better. It wasn’t just the gambling, although there was that, or class difference, which neither of them gave a damn about. It was everything he had done, the soothing and gentling, and yes Jesper had done the same for Wylan, but Wylan wanted Jesper. Clear as a bell Wylan felt lost now, he couldn’t hide that, but he showed up. He asked what was wrong, gave Jesper space, kissed him, smiled for him. He had been understanding about Jesper going to gamble, the _one thing_ he was supposed to be avoiding.   
  
And while he was sobbing in Wylan’s arms, Jesper had wanted someone else.   
  
Saints, he was a mess. When Wylan was upset he wanted soothing, he wanted _Jesper_ , and Jesper wanted that. He wanted to be the North Star. But when he was upset, Jesper wanted Kaz. For all his cruelty and disdain, Jesper wanted Kaz.  
  
He shook his head to get rid of the thought and finished buttoning his waistcoat. When the pain wore off, Jesper promised himself he would think of a plan, a way to make himself love Wylan more than he loved Kaz. When the pain wore off.  
  
They didn’t talk much on the browboat.  
  
Jesper tried sitting still. It didn’t go well. He drummed his fingers, then started picking at splinters of the rail.  
  
Wylan wound his arm through Jesper’s.  
  
“Let’s go for a walk.”  
  
“We’re on a boat,” Jesper replied.  
  
“A _short_ walk,” Wylan amended.   
  
They didn’t need to worry about losing their seats. They didn’t have seats—they used to have seats, but Wylan had wanted to give them to a young couple with a baby heading out of the city looking for work. Because of course he did. He had chatted with them for a bit before going with Jesper to find somewhere to stand.  
  
They took a short walk.  
  
After a while, the crowd on the boat thinned.  
  
Jesper found his attention drawn to the farms by the river, not for the first time, and not for the first time he found himself reminded of Novyi Zem. The weather was too chill to really be anything like Novyi Zem, but without the distinctive scents of Ketterdam, something in Jesper felt a glimmer of familiarity—like this could be home. All that open space… part of what he said in the Church of Barter had been absolute nonsense—his height came from his ma, not being outdoors—he really had spent much of his childhood gamboling about. He didn’t have a lot of spare time, but when he had it, he spent it running, climbing, falling off things…  
  
“It’s such a massive scale,” Wylan said, bringing back Jesper’s attention.  
  
“What is it?” Jesper asked.  
  
“People. I always thought I’d never know enough about the world, but I thought about how things worked. I never thought about… don’t tease me.”  
  
“I won’t,” Jesper said, even though he very easily could. It was another aspect to how spoiled Wylan had been, but he was much better and worked at improving.   
  
Wylan slipped his hand into Jesper’s.  
  
Jesper hadn’t mentioned it, but Wylan looked like a little kid playing mercher. He was carrying a ledger in his free hand and his satchel was overstuffed like he hadn’t known what he would need, so he just brought everything.   
  
They stood together quietly for a while. At least, they didn’t speak out loud. Jesper’s hands were not quiet. They fiddled with buttons—his, Wylan’s. They tugged at hems. They found Wylan’s hair, he liked toying with Wylan’s hair. If Jesper was being entirely honest, sometimes he played up his restlessness. Sometimes it was easier to say he needed a fidget than to say he needed a cuddle.  
  
Lij, as it happened, was precisely as boring as Jesper expected.   
  
He let Wylan take the lead. Wylan explained that he was here to learn about the Van Eck empire, asked questions. He listened keenly to the answers. Jesper knew the numbers being rattled off were lodging in Wylan’s brain. They skated over Jesper’s. He let himself be distracted by the butterflies, the flash of dark spots on their orange wings.  
  
They had a brief tour of the fields. They had read over the rotation system, but Wylan listened and nodded like this was new and fascinating as Jesper noted that the plants did indeed look healthy.  
  
After a while, Wylan requested permission that he and Jesper could have a look around on their own.  
  
Jesper wanted to say that he didn’t need to _ask_. This was his land. But Wylan was still relearning what he had a right to and he fell back on his merch manners. Rather than say anything to Wylan, Jesper focused on the man Wylan spoke to, scrutinizing him for any sign of mockery or derisiveness.  
  
_Good sir, this is **my** merchling, I expect him returned in peak condition._  
  
They borrowed horses—‘borrowed’, like they didn’t belong to Wylan. Horses actually made sense out here and riding felt different—better—when it wasn’t a few sad nostalgia moments in a _pen_. Jesper remembered how happy Agata had seemed the other day… and he supposed, if a person had never truly _ridden a horse_ , never felt the wind daring you, that would be sufficient.  
  
Jesper had ridden horses, though. He’d ridden in Novyi Zem where a horse was still an animal, not an ornament like in Ketterdam.   
  
Maybe it wasn’t exactly the same here, but it was closer. Jesper glanced at Wylan, who seemed comfortable enough riding. So he risked nudging his horse into a trot. Just to see what Wylan would do. And when Wylan was able to manage that, Jesper graduated to a canter, unable to keep from whooping with laughter at how good this felt. It had all the fast change and requisite situational awareness of a good brawl, and it was just _fun_!  
  
Jesper kept casting the occasional look at Wylan, just to be sure he wasn’t leaving his boyfriend in the dust. In fact, Wylan kept pace.  
  
No…  
  
Jesper didn’t realize it at first, not until Wylan pulled ahead and shot him a grin. They were _racing!_  
  
Jesper hadn’t known he could grin so hugely.  
  
If this little soft-handed, city-raised merchling thought he stood a _chance_ …  
  
He actually wasn’t wrong. Jesper chalked it up to Wylan being smaller and lighter, because somehow, though he would gain and sometimes lead, Wylan was about his equal as a rider.   
  
Jesper gritted his teeth in a thrill of competition. No chance in hell was he losing this race! He saw his chance when Wylan slowed for a turn in the path. Rather than slowing, Jesper gripped the horse more tightly with his thighs and nudged him into a burst of speed, getting a lead on Wylan—one he was able to hold for seven… eight… nine…  
  
Fifteen seconds of lead time and Jesper realized he hadn’t actually _won_ so much as been tricked. Wylan blew past him at a gallop.  
  
Jesper would have been angry if he wasn’t so damn proud and having so much fun!  
  
By the time he caught up, Wylan had stopped and dismounted, effectively declaring himself the winner. Jesper hopped off his horse, gave him an affectionate pat, and turned to Wylan with a smart quip on the tip of his tongue.  
  
He was going to say something clever, truly he was. Right until Wylan drew Jesper nearer and stood on tiptoe to kiss him, and _Saints_ it was everything in a kiss. The thrill of the race and the thunder of hoofbeats, all the risk of a gunfight with the odds against him. Jesper’s heart was already racing, but this gave it an extra kick. And when Wylan had the audacity and the poor judgment to break them apart, Jesper gave him all of half a breath before pulling him close. He let Wylan get just enough air that it was worth stealing. Jesper was kissing the way he had raced, for fun, but for victory, too. He wasn’t done until Wylan was leaning heavily against him. Until he was dizzy from it.  
  
Jesper drew back. He stroked his knuckles against Wylan’s flushed cheek.  
  
“You’re full of surprises today, sunshine,” Jesper said.  
  
“Good surprises?”  
  
“Great surprises.”  
  
“Like being the better rider.”  
  
Jesper laughed. “Watch it.”  
  
It wasn’t until he had taken care of his horse that Jesper really looked at his surroundings. They had stopped where a slow, wide stream wandered nearby, a grassy bank leading to the water. They weren’t especially close to the fields anymore. They weren’t close to _anything_ —there was a mill a ways down. That was about the measure of it.  
  
Turning to Wylan again, Jesper asked, “Is this a date?”  
  
“Well…”  
  
“You sneaky, gorgeous little genius.”  
  
He was blushing fiercely. “Is it a good date?” Wylan asked.  
  
Only perfect. For all his complaints, Jesper did like the open air, at least when he wasn’t the one working the farm, when it wasn’t day after day. For a break, he liked it, not to mention the horses, he was still spinning from that race!  
  
“It would be better with—”  
  
Wylan fished a bottle of lager from his satchel.  
  
“What the…”  
  
Jesper strode over, flipped open the satchel, and peered in. No wonder it had looked so strange!  
  
“All of this was an excuse for a picnic?”  
  
“Well… no… not exactly,” Wylan said, “I really do want to shift away from the reliance on rye, and I wanted a better understanding of the fields. I thought since we were here we might as well have lunch.”  
  
To Jesper, it was clear Wylan had done this to cheer him up after last night, and _this_ was what he came up with. He wondered how much Wylan had planned and how much he had improvised—obviously the trip to Lij and the picnic were planned. The horses? Did Wylan know the area or was he lucky enough to find a picnic spot almost as pretty as he was? Jesper didn’t care. No one had ever done something like this for him.  
  
“I lied earlier,” Jesper said.  
  
Confused, Wylan asked, “About what?”  
  
“Remember I told you I’d let you go if you did exactly what I said?”  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
Jesper swept him into a hug. “There is no chance of me ever letting you go.”  
  
“It’s just a picnic, Jes,” Wylan said, laughing.   
  
It was so much more than that.  
  
Wylan continued, “Not that I had any intention of obeying, anyway.”  
  
“We’ve discussed this before, naughtiness doesn’t suit you,” Jesper said.  
  
“Does too,” Wylan pouted.  
  
Jesper didn’t want to talk about how he felt yesterday, not even by comparison, so he wouldn’t say he felt _better_. Just that he felt _good_. In this moment, he was happy.   
  
They sat in the grass by the stream. Jesper took off his boots and socks, rolled up his trousers, and put his feet in the water. After a moment, Wylan copied him. They ate quietly for a while. Jesper drank his lager. Wylan had forgotten to pack a knife, so they tore off bits of bread to dip into the little pot of apple syrup.   
  
“Why don’t you drink?” Jesper asked, knowing he might be opening the door to another dark memory.  
  
When Wylan blushed, Jesper breathed easier. He didn’t blush about the really bad stuff.  
  
“I tried once. It was… it was bad. I drank a bottle of brandy, and I felt really nice for a while, but then I threw up. The next day I thought my head was going split open. Since then I avoid the whole business.”  
  
That seemed reasonable enough, but Jesper had to ask: “You drank the _entire bottle_?”  
  
“It was only half full,” Wylan said.  
  
“Saints! No wonder you puked! You don’t drink brandy like that, you have half an inch—you sip it.”  
  
“Well, how was I supposed to know? I thought it was like lager or wine, I’d seen my father and his friends drink several bottles of wine at one dinner.”  
  
“Even Radmakker?” Jesper asked. He was surprised. For all Jesper joked about mercher restraint, he had the feeling Radmakker took it all quite seriously.  
  
Wylan shook his head. “He and my father weren’t really friends. Anyway I’d never had a drink before that day and… well… the evidence was unpersuasive.”  
  
Jesper laughed. “The evidence was unpersuasive,” he repeated. “Okay, merchling. I’ll update the list, obviously I can’t get you liquored up to get your trousers off.”  
  
Wylan blushed a furious shade of pink and tried to stammer out a response, but couldn’t. He really was adorable this way.   
  
It wasn’t actually a suggestion. He said it to fluster Wylan more, leaning closer to stroke his forearm: “Unless… there’s no one around now…”  
  
Wylan spluttered and squeaked before he finally managed, “We’re in a field, Jesper!”  
  
“And?” Jesper asked, laughing.  
  
This was just what he wanted. Flustered, pink-faced Wylan, desperately searching for words. He didn’t really seem bothered by it—this was a game now. Something they did together for fun. Jesper drove Wylan half-mad and then cuddled him until he forgot about it.   
  
Finally, Wylan managed, “And I expect you to give me a far nicer first time. Something without dirt or grass stains.”  
  
Jesper felt his eyebrows jump. He had assumed as much—he _wanted_ as much—but was surprised to hear it. Did Wylan realize what he had just said? He seemed focused on the setting. Jesper was rather more focused on the fact that Wylan, who didn’t like to show more than below his knees and elbows, had apparently made a decision that his first tumble would be with Jesper.  
  
Not that they were going to speak seriously about it. Not now.  
  
“So you’ve decided I’m going to be your first, but you want to choreograph?” Jesper asked.  
  
With a huff and a look that would make any mercher proud, Wylan replied, “I have _expectations_.”  
  
Jesper rolled his eyes. “Expectations, huh? Saints, you’re spoiled. Let me get some paper and write this down…”  
  
“I don’t think a bed is that unreasonable.”  
  
“A bed—what’s next, sheets? A mattress?!”  
  
“I do, in fact, expect sheets and a mattress.” Going into even those broad details brought a faint pink to his cheeks. Oh, that blush was more than fluster, wasn’t it? Yeah—there was a breathlessness that didn’t usually come from embarrassment. “Ghezen and all his works, I’m worried about where you want to take me.”  
  
Jesper snickered, then glanced at Wylan and stopped. “That wasn’t intentional?”  
  
Wylan shook his head.  
  
That was enough fun for now.  
  
“Hey.” Jesper drew him close for a slow, gentle kiss. “When you’re ready, I promise you a bed, with sheets and a mattress. Not that you’ll notice under all the tulip petals. Roses are more traditional, but you being Kerch and all…”  
  
Wylan laughed. “Sure, Jes. Tulip petals.”  
  
“I mean it,” Jesper insisted. He knew he joked a lot—knew he _was hilarious_ thanks very much!—but surely Wylan could tell Jesper was being serious now. “I’ll treat you right.”  
  
Jesper had blurted out the idea, but now that he thought about it, he quite liked the image. Wylan on a bed covered with tulip petals. Wylan looking up at him the way he had that morning, with so much love and trust and longing…  
  
Jesper looked across the stream. _Definitely_ time to shift his focus.  
  
“I was just kidding,” Wylan said. “You don’t have to do anything special. Just being with you is enough for me.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous. You really need to accept the idea of me spoiling you.”  
  
He knew Wylan wasn’t there yet—but he was thinking about it. A lot, apparently. Wylan didn’t just _do things_ , he talked and thought and worried first… so Jesper supposed he ought to brace for a lot of these conversations. Brace? Who was he kidding? He had no problem chatting about intimacy with his boyfriend.  
  
“I thought I was spoiled,” Wylan retorted without thinking. “I mean—you said I was spoiled!” but Jesper was already laughing. “You said it!”  
  
“And I’m brilliant.”  
  
“Ghezen’s ledger, you are.”  
  
After a moment’s quiet, Jesper said, “No need to stop at brilliant.”  
  
“Wonderful, handsome, pretty good at riding…”  
  
Jesper shoved him for that ‘pretty good’, but they were both laughing.  
  
Inej had been utterly correct when she told him he needed to look for the ways Wylan showed affection. She had been utterly correct that Jesper would be happier when he found them. He thought about that as Wylan leaned against him. Jesper wrapped an arm over his shoulders.  
  
“She taught me to shoot,” he said.   
  
There was nothing, _nothing_ Wylan could do to make the pain go away, but he brought Jesper’s fingers to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, and rather than blame Wylan that he still hurt—even if it would have been easier—Jesper decided to appreciate the gesture.  
  
“It was never just the bullet in the chamber, it was everything. How to aim. How to account for the wind. How the weapon moved and how to account and react… she called me zowa, like her. But I didn’t know what that was.”  
  
How could he? He knew they had secrets. The special things his ma did, like how she made gunpowder, those were secrets. But an extra cookie was a secret, too. He might prefer the term zowa, but even Jesper knew ‘Fabrikator’ was much more functional information.  
  
“If she’d been there to help me grow up right, maybe I wouldn’t be—”  
  
“Hey,” Wylan interrupted, “no. Don’t do that. You’re perfect just the way you are.”  
  
Jesper laughed mirthlessly.  
  
“What happened to her?”  
  
Jesper sighed. “A girl who lived nearby drank out of a corrupted well. I guess someone else in the family must have been like us, because they knew about Ma. She went to help… ended up absorbing some of the poison. Whatever it was. The girl was too weak to help and I wasn’t trained. She…”  
  
Saints, he was crying again.  
  
Jesper didn’t wait for an invitation this time. He took his arm off Wylan’s shoulders, pulled his feet out of the stream, and curled up across Wylan’s lap. Wylan took the hint, holding Jesper’s hand in one of his and stroking his short hair with the other.   
  
“Do you want me to sing again?”  
  
Jesper shook his head.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
It was ridiculous. He could hear the water murmuring, the rustle of grass and the occasional call of a bird, all of it interrupted by his sobs and sniffling.  
  
After he was finished, Jesper sat up and rubbed his eyes. Wylan offered him a handkerchief; Jesper dipped it in the stream and washed his face. It didn’t make him feel much better, but he felt a quieter awful now.  
  
“This doesn’t fix anything,” he complained softly.  
  
“Sometimes it’s not about fixing things. Sometimes it’s about fixing us.”  
  
Jesper bristled. “I’m not broken.”  
  
Wylan gave him a gentle, sideways look. It made Jesper’s fingertips twitch, that look, even before Wylan reached up to touch his cheek.  
  
“We’re all broken.”  
  
“I don’t like when you say stuff like that,” Jesper said, quietly glum. “It hurts to be that honest. And you’re not broken just because you can’t read.”  
  
“No,” Wylan said, “I’m broken because I’m afraid of my father. I wake up in the night scared sometimes, like he’s right outside the door, waiting. Normal people don’t do that. I’m getting better, but I _am_ broken. Maybe that’s nothing to be ashamed of. All of us were, even Inej. Even… even Matthias.”  
  
_Kaz wasn’t,_ Jesper thought. Kaz had his leg, but that was the extent of it; Kaz was brilliant, clever, he always—  
  
Enough.  
  
Enough of that.  
  
“Should we ride or walk back?” Wylan asked.  
  
“Walk,” Jesper said. He knew he had been offered an out from this conversation, but although it had become awkwardly honest, he didn’t want it to end. Not yet.  
  
The horses had wandered off a ways. Jesper and Wylan retrieved them, each took a set of reins in their hand and started toward the road. Wylan’s free hand found Jesper’s.  
  
“Sometimes, when I’m up in the middle of the night, I don’t wake you because if I’m close enough, you cuddle me in your sleep.”  
  
It was so utterly unexpected, said with such earnestness, that Jesper laughed.  
  
“I assume you’ve never been on a date before?” Jesper asked.  
  
“Well…”  
  
“A stakeout doesn’t count.”  
  
“Then no, I haven’t.”  
  
“Well, you did an excellent job.”


	33. Objectives, Objections

Wylan had planned many things for the day, best he could at the last minute, but there were some things he failed to consider. For example, schedules for the browboats that traveled the river, he hadn’t thought to check on those. Luckily Jesper was sporting about it. He did get in a few jibes about Wylan being spoiled and helpless, but was that a surprise to anyone?  
  
It was dark when Wylan and Jesper returned to the Van Eck mansion. Wylan was worried about his mama. It was the longest he had been away from her since she came home from the asylum.  
  
“Half chime,” Jesper said, just catching the sound.  
  
“Eight bells?” Wylan asked. The half chime didn’t mean much without that context. Eight bells and half chime wasn’t so late, really—they usually stayed up later—but maybe because it had been such a busy day, or from all the sunshine, he felt about ready to fall asleep.  
  
“Looks that way.”  
  
The mansion had never felt especially _welcoming_ to Wylan; he had known, of course, that it was his home, but never thought it felt like a home. The warmly lit windows seemed welcoming now.  
  
They slipped in and paused to unlace and remove their boots. They hadn’t got past the foyer before Agata found them. She stood quietly, worrying her hands. Wylan felt his heart dip. His concerns had been founded, then. At least he had the cold comfort of being right.  
  
“Tell me,” he said.  
  
“Missus Van Eck was very upset. Sveta helped her sleep. I’m sorry.”  
  
Wylan nodded.  
  
He had to go, of course, but… and he was scarcely going to invite his mother along on a date—had this been a proper courtship with a girl from another merchant house, maybe, but that had never been Wylan’s lot for several reasons. It left him free to have the relationship he wanted with Jesper. Unfortunately, that had meant being far from his mother today.  
  
Knowing how Marya could be when she was confused, he asked, “Did she hurt anyone? Or herself?”  
  
“She… a little, yes. She hurt herself a little. Sveta helped—I’m so sorry, Mister Van Eck.”  
  
As she shivered, Wylan realized belatedly why Agata was so upset. Her duties here were fairly simple and centered around caring for his mother. Doubtless she felt she had failed. And doubtless back in the House of Sweet Jade, failure meant something very different.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
He felt strange comforting her. Intellectually, yes, Wylan knew Agata worked for him. But he hadn’t really felt like her boss. Agata was older than Wylan. She had been on her own for years, while he had been a sullen, spoiled brat until about three weeks ago. She was so biddable, he never needed to wield the authority he technically had. Of course she had only _been_ biddable out of fear…  
  
He had the authority here, though, so he took her hands and squeezed gently.  
  
“It’s not your fault, Agata. My mother,” he thought of her as his mama, but felt like referring to her that way wasn’t appropriate right now, “has been through an ordeal. I don’t blame you for her bad days.”  
  
Agata nodded.  
  
“I know you did the best you could.” With a quick glance over his shoulder, Wylan told Jesper, “You go ahead, I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”  
  
He guided Agata into the sitting room. They might as well have a chat about this now so he could be as prepared as possible for tomorrow. He planned to leave early on an errand the next morning and initially thought he would let everyone sleep. Jesper was a deep sleeper and Wylan could easily slip out without disturbing him, and as for his mother—but she would need to see him. She would need to know he was okay.  
  
Once Agata was seated, Wylan parked himself opposite her. The day had clearly worn her out. This would be as quick as possible, he promised. She clearly needed a good night’s sleep.  
  
“I’m not cross,” he said. “I know it’s not your fault. Maybe I haven’t been fair to you, I should have been clear from the beginning that my mother isn’t… that she—I’m still getting used to it myself. I need to know what happened today so I’m ready for tomorrow.”  
  
Wylan listened as Agata explained and it broke his heart. She had been worried about him. Marya had been agitated _about him_. Worried someone was hurting him.  
  
How did he assuage that? He knew he couldn’t tell her he had always been well. His mama had been lied to enough. And he… he had lied, too. Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he told her he met Jesper at university? But he couldn’t tell her the truth, either. Wylan used to think when his mama came home, she would be the lady of the house. She would take care of him. Instead, she was one more person he needed to take care of, and Wylan wanted to, he wanted to help—he wanted to know how to help.  
  
He wanted to tell the truth.  
  
He didn’t want anyone to know—especially her.  
  
He wanted to put his head in his hands and slump his shoulders, but he couldn’t, not in front of Agata.  
  
Instead, after she had finished telling him what happened, Wylan just nodded.  
  
“I understand,” he said, “thank you, Agata. Thank you for your work today. Go and get some rest.”  
  
It wasn’t entirely satisfactory, but it was good enough.  
  
Wylan wanted to do the same—go upstairs, get in bed, wait for Jesper to hold him, and fall asleep in his arms. Unfortunately another thing he failed to consider, in addition to the boat schedules, was how much food he and Jesper would want throughout the day. He was tired of it, of being hungry. He didn’t have to be any more. So Wylan headed for the kitchen instead, unbuttoning his cuffs and collar as he went. He left his satchel and boots by the front door.  
  
Apparently Jesper had the same thought. Wylan found him in the kitchen, his mouth full and a plate of spice cake in front of him.  
  
“That’s a healthy choice.”  
  
Jesper swallowed. “There’s some carrots,” he said, pulling a second plate of cake closer.  
  
Wylan grinned, shoved Jesper fondly, and grabbed that second plate of cake. Jesper passed over a bottle of cream. Wylan poured a respectable puddle over his cake and dug in.  
  
“How is she?” Jesper asked after a few moments.  
  
“Agata was shaken but okay. I’ll talk to Mama tomorrow. I’m so sorry, Jes, I wanted today to be for you.”  
  
“And all I got was a surprise date, a picnic, and a horse race in which you cheated.”  
  
“Cheated!” Wylan objected. “It’s not my fault you’re a slow rider!”  
  
Jesper gasped and clutched his chest. “Slow. _Slow!_ How could you slander me like this? I thought you loved me!”  
  
Wylan swallowed a bite of his cake and said, “For all you are. Even your failings… like being a slow rider, or too tall to kiss easily.”  
  
Jesper scoffed. “You’re too short, that’s your fault.”  
  
“I must be, since you’re objectively perfect.”  
  
“I’m going to head to bed. Come up when you’re ready.”  
  
Jesper left, and Wylan wasn’t sure why. He wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, why Jesper had spoken so curtly. Weren’t they having fun? Was he annoyed about the issue with Marya after all? Wylan couldn’t fault him. Jesper didn’t ask for that.  
  
He shook his head. He didn’t know how to be a good boyfriend. And he didn’t know how to be a good son. But he was trying. He loved Marya and he loved Jesper and he was trying, and as long as they wanted him, he would keep trying.  
  
He washed the dishes—hopefully well, a merchant’s son wasn’t raised to do the washing up—and headed for the bedroom.  
  
Wylan hesitated outside the door. He hadn’t been in here often until lately. It was his parents’ bedroom, then his father’s alone, and Wylan had not been a child who climbed into his parents’ bed after nightmares. He went to his nanny first. He remembered looking for his father after his mama died. Only once. Jan made clear that he did not want Wylan coming into his bedroom.  
  
The anxiety had faded, and feeling it increase again… it hurt.  
  
He took a breath, knocked softly, and headed into the room.  
  
Jesper was reading in bed.  
  
Wylan looked at him for a moment, not sure what he was supposed to do. Was he supposed to get changed and get into bed, too? Were they going to talk about this?  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
They said it at the same time, making Wylan shuffle uncertainly.  
  
“Can we talk about it?” Jesper asked. “I didn’t mean to spoil the day.”  
  
Wylan nodded. This was better—he was relieved to know what Jesper wanted.  
  
“I’ll get changed, then we can talk.”  
  
He did just that. Wylan changed into his nightshirt, but rather than getting under the covers and snuggling close as he usually would, he took a seat on the edge of the bed. He set his hands in his lap, careful to keep from gnawing his thumb. What he wanted to ask was, _how can I make this right?_ What he needed to ask was, _where did things go wrong?_  
  
“What do you want?” Jesper asked, his arms looped loosely around his knees.  
  
Wylan glanced up from his hands. That only puzzled him. “What do you mean? You—I want you. You know that.”  
  
“Yeah, and I know I’m a mess, but what would it take? How good do I need to be for you?”  
  
Wylan shook his head. It wasn’t like that. _It wasn’t like that._ Sure, he wanted Jesper to stay away from the tables, but they both wanted that. He wanted Jesper to train, to find a Fabrikator they could trust to teach him to use his powers, but they both wanted that. Didn’t they? Weren’t they on the same page?  
  
He didn’t know what to say, didn’t understand where this was coming from. Wylan swallowed. _No,_ he told himself. The anxiety and fear this was stirring up in him was wrong. It wasn’t about Jesper. It was something inside Wylan, and it _wasn’t about them_.  
  
Softly, Jesper said, “Tell me, Wylan.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Wylan said. “I don’t understand what you’re asking me. I don’t think you’re a mess, I don’t… I’m not… why are you asking me this?”  
  
Was this breaking up? Was Jesper breaking up with him? Wylan gnawed his thumb. He caught himself at it, but didn’t stop.  
  
“What’s all this ‘objective’ stuff about? Why can’t you just _say you like me_?”  
  
“I…”  
  
Wylan didn’t know what to say. He understood what Jesper meant, but it was so different from how Wylan thought things were, he needed a moment to relearn… reality. That was what they were talking about?!  
  
“I love you, Wy, and you know that. So if there’s something I need to do—”  
  
“Jesper, stop.”  
  
He was getting worked up. Wylan heard it in his voice, saw it in the way his fingers were moving, plucking at the sheets—but Wylan told him to stop and he did. It made Wylan sit up straighter and speak with more authority.  
  
“Deep breath.”  
  
Jesper did. His hands stilled.  
  
“Again.”  
  
He did.  
  
“Kiss?”  
  
Again Jesper did as he was told, twining his fingers in Wylan’s curls and cupping the back of his head while they kissed. It was slow and gentle, which Wylan liked. Before Jesper, Wylan had never been kissed. He had thought about it, but never experienced it. He had learned that kisses could be wholly enveloping, a moment taken out of time. Or they could be a burning fuse, sparking closer and closer to something so much more.  
  
Wylan’s heart fluttered. What he planned to do next… he didn’t know if he could. It was the sort of thing Jesper could do, and it would seem smooth and perfect. But that was Jesper. Wylan…  
  
But he didn’t know what else to do.  
  
Wylan gently pushed Jesper’s hand aside. He saw the confusion in his eyes, the anticipation, and if he had the words to make this sound right he would have used them. He didn’t. Instead, Wylan began pressing kisses down Jesper’s neck.  
  
“You are amazing,” Wylan murmured between kisses. “You’re clever… and caring… and funny… and handsome… you’re like the sun, Jes, you’re like a _planet_.”  
  
Jesper put his hand on Wylan’s head again, holding him close, but also holding him still. Wylan wasn’t sure what that meant. He could have liked it, if he knew it meant approval and not that Jesper wanted the distraction stopped.  
  
“Then why don’t you like me best?” Jesper asked.  
  
_Objective._  
  
That was the problem—when Wylan said Jesper was ‘objectively’ the best. Now that he thought about it, Jesper’s mood had shifted a few times after Wylan said that. It had never occurred to him that the remarks might be seen as insulting when he meant them as a compliment.  
  
“You’re so much bigger than me…”  
  
“You’re too _short_ to love me?”  
  
Softly, laying his forehead on Jesper’s shoulder, Wylan admitted, “You deserve more. When I say you make me happy, it feels like diminishing you. You’re so much more than that.”  
  
Jesper moved his hand away from Wylan’s head, instead wrapping both arms around him and holding him close. Wylan sighed softly and relaxed against Jesper. This was it. This was where he felt the most right. Wylan put his arms around Jesper, and this was where they belonged, holding each other.  
  
“Saints, what did he do to you,” Jesper muttered, not so much a question.  
  
Unbidden, Wylan’s mind flashed back to that night. He was eight. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t _understand_ —he’d never had a pet, and though he remembered his father’s mother, Grandmother had been halfway dead anyway. She wasn’t a real-live complete person like his mama. He missed her—he was confused about her—Ghezen’s books, why had Wylan thought it was a good idea to go looking for his father…  
  
That was a long time ago. That was over now, gone.  
  
“It’s not about that. It’s just you, just how amazing you are.”  
  
“If not for him, you would understand that I don’t care about being better than other people. I want _you,_ I want to be who you want. When you say that it’s like you’re pushing me away.”  
  
Wylan wanted to object. He wanted to point out that Jesper hadn’t been _good_ , he had been wonderful. Jesper had literally just told Wylan what he needed, though, and Wylan wasn’t going to overlook that—even if instinct told him to shoot higher. Maybe he ought to leave the ‘shooting’ to Jesper, because apparently Wylan couldn’t aim to save his life.  
  
“I want you,” he said. “I don’t want to push you away. I want you right here next to me forever.”  
  
He had tried not to use compliments based on what he liked. It just seemed so much more fitting to say that Jesper was amazing, rather than limiting him to just being the guy who made Wylan happy. If that was what Jesper wanted, though, Wylan would accommodate. He could learn.  
  
Jesper murmured in response, “Thank you for a wonderful day. I’m sorry I made it end like this.”  
  
“We needed to talk,” Wylan insisted. It was a good thing. It had hurt, but it was necessary, like setting a broken bone. “But you know what would make it up to me?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“How about if I get under the covers with you… you can hold me and tell me how handsome I am.”  
  
“I can do that now,” Jesper pointed out.  
  
Yes, actually, he could. What was it about a quilt that made it feel like they were in their own private world?  
  
“I prefer to take my compliments horizontally,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper started laughing, which Wylan caught, and soon enough they were both laughing like it was the funniest joke in the world. They laughed until they had to let each other go and wipe their eyes. Neither of them knew why, exactly. Wylan remembered that first night, Jesper listing his euphemisms (Wylan still wondered which were real and still resolutely did _not_ ask).  
  
“Let’s get horizontal, handsome,” Jesper said, which set them both off again.  
  
Wylan turned out the lights, only leaving the lamp beside the bed, and pulled back the covers as he remarked, “That sounds like another euphemism.”  
  
“Maybe. Except you don’t have to be horizontal for that.”  
  
Jesper said it with such a suggestive tone, such a terribly wonderful grin, that Wylan pulled the pillow over his face again.  
  
“Hey,” Jesper objected. He tugged at the pillow. Wylan refused to give it up, so Jesper tickled him.  
  
“No fair!” Wylan yelped, the pillow slipping from his hands.  
  
Jesper put the pillow back where it belonged.  
  
“I believe I have been clear on my feelings about your face,” he said.  
  
“You like it?”  
  
“Very much.”  
  
“I very much like your face, too.”  
  
“Well, that’s just good sense.”  
  
Jesper stroked Wylan’s cheek. Wylan shifted closer. He liked those touches. They made him feel so wonderful and warm, not necessarily in that hot desperation way—though Jesper was more than capable of evoking those feelings as well—more like, if he were a cat, he would purr. Wylan suspected he could get drunk off enough petting.  
  
As he carded his fingers through Wylan’s hair, Jesper asked, “You know about my debts, don’t you, gorgeous?”  
  
Wylan was already trying to swallow a happy sigh from the affection. He needed a moment to work up the right words: “We took care of that, didn’t we?”  
  
“You took care of that.”  
  
Wylan disagreed. “If you insist,” he allowed.  
  
“Sometimes it seems like maybe you forgot.”  
  
“I didn’t forget.” How could he? Wylan remembered those weeks, how Kaz had punished Jesper for his mistakes. He remembered the anguish when Jesper realized how Colm might be the one to pay for Jesper’s lapse in judgment. “Do you want me to bring it up more often?”  
  
“No… but you don’t talk about it at all!”  
  
Wylan was lost. Of course he didn’t bring it up. How was Jesper supposed to move on if Wylan constantly reminded him of his past mistakes? And besides—Wylan didn’t want to be Jesper’s new Kaz.  
  
But… but if that was what Jesper wanted…  
  
“Do you want me to?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Then I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong,” Wylan admitted. He saw the frustration in Jesper’s face, but he truly didn’t understand.  
  
Jesper’s hand had stilled. When it fell away from his cheek, Wylan did not interpret it as a slight. He missed the touch anyway. It was what he had longed for every time he just wanted to be close to Jesper—when he stood beside him on the _Ferolind_ , or that night in the Geldrenner—he just wanted that closeness. Touch.  
  
“I’m not as good as you think I am,” Jesper said.  
  
Oh.  
  
That.  
  
“I see the bad in you,” Wylan ceded. He did. Jesper had made mistakes—but he never _meant_ to make mistakes. They were just… mistakes. “I know it’s there, it’s just—I guess I thought I was helping by reminding you of the good. Or that maybe it would be easier to tell me you needed help if you knew how much I liked about you, that it’s okay when you make a mistake because you’re so much more than that mistakes. We have to be able to tell each other the bad stuff, too. It’s not fair… it’s not fair to either of us if we can’t, is it?”  
  
“I don’t deserve you, Wy.”  
  
Wylan felt his easy expression slip, even as he saw the pain in Jesper’s eyes.  
  
“Now that,” Wylan said, “I can’t allow. Don’t you know how good you’ve been to me? For weeks you’ve held my hand, Jes. You’ve held _me_. You’re… you’re _everything_ , everything warm and good and bright… you have faults, but your bad barely scratches the surface of your good. Sometimes all I want is to make you as happy as you’ve made me. Don’t you dare tell me you don’t deserve me.”  
  
“Wylan…”  
  
He didn’t know how to fix this.  
  
“Aren’t you supposed to be holding me?”  
  
Jesper did. Wylan resettled against him, automatically breathing easier. He was safe here. He was happy.  
  
“This is wonderful,” Wylan said. He might not have Jesper’s way with words, but at least he could scrape together a basic compliment. “And it wasn’t supposed to be a perfect day, just a day for you. I didn’t know I was hurting you when I said all that. Thank you for telling me.”  
  
“I guess I can understand why you said it.”  
  
“I think my favorite part of the day was this morning, those jokes about taking me captive.”  
  
“Jokes,” Jesper murmured.  
  
Wylan sighed happily. There was something thrilling in it, being wanted, not just now but forever. He wanted this forever. Even though it had been a wonderful day all around, his favorite part was still that morning. Or… “Maybe the look on your face when you realized we were on a date. You were so happy.”  
  
Jesper didn’t answer, and after a while, Wylan felt himself drifting off. He didn’t fight it.  
  
For once, there was nothing to try to stay awake for. Everything he wanted was right here.  
  
The next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder.  
  
“Wylan. Hey, wake up.”  
  
Wylan groaned and cracked his eyes open. The room was dark, not even a hint of sunlight creeping under the curtains. He needed to be up early today, but not _this_ early!  
  
“What’s wrong?” he slurred blearily.  
  
“What you said earlier, about wanting me to feel like I could tell you about mistakes, was that about me, Wy? Or was that about you?”  
  
“Remember that,” Wylan managed. Ghezen’s works, he was still so tired, but he did remember. “Not about me.”  
  
“Are you sure? If there’s something you want to tell me, it’s okay.”  
  
Wylan moaned sleepily. He groped in the darkness until he found Jesper’s arm and tapped three times.  
  
“I love you, too, but if there’s ever something you need to tell me, you can. I want all of you, the good and the bad.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“Can I sleep now?”  
  
“Of course you can.” Wylan registered the change in sensations but didn’t worry about it, then realized it was just Jesper cuddling him close again. “Go back to sleep, beautiful. I’m here.”  
  
Wylan wanted to say something in return, but fell asleep before he found words.


	34. Sacred is Ghezen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick unrelated note, a group of awesome folks has put together a really cool group of writers, artists, edit-makers, and beta-readers collaborating to make awesome fanworks. It’s called the Grishaverse Big Bang and I encourage everyone to check it out: https://grishaversebigbang.tumblr.com/
> 
>  
> 
> Something happens in this chapter which Inej canonically expected Jesper to be pleased about. I hope you won't mind my divergence from the source material.

Even in the dim quarter-light, Wylan’s part of the closet looked markedly different from Jesper’s. There were shapes and patterns, contrasts and activity in Jesper’s clothes. Wylan’s clothes were shadows in the darkness. He wreathed himself in shadows, then, and combed his hair flat with oil. Having his normally wild curls tamed felt strange. He wanted to run a hand over his head to get a sense of what it was, but stopped himself.  
  
Jesper was still asleep when Wylan looked in on him. He was glad—just because Wylan needed to leave early didn’t mean Jesper should suffer. He couldn’t resist returning briefly to the bed, though, just to resettle the covers over Jesper, just to linger for a moment… then Wylan tapped Jesper’s arm gently and left the room, picking up his shoes and hat as he went.  
  
Wylan was far from excited about going to church. For one thing, he wasn’t sure he put his faith in Ghezen. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Ghezen was real, nor that he wanted to snub the god, more that he would rather show his respect through deeds and worship at others’ feet. He was interested in the Saints, for example, though he hadn’t had many chances to ask Inej about them and doubted Jesper’s information was entirely reliable. Jesper had a habit of punctuating stories about the Saints with, _I think that’s about it, but I didn’t pay attention in church_.  
  
Wylan knocked softly before letting himself into Marya’s room. He left the shoes and hat in the corridor—no need to wake anyone unnecessarily with heavy footsteps—then gave her shoulder a gentle shake.  
  
“Mama? It’s Wylan.”  
  
Marya woke slowly. He wondered if that had to do with this being a Grisha-induced sleep.  
  
Then, suddenly, she sat up.  
  
“Wylan!”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
Marya pulled him close and hugged him tight. Clinging.  
  
“It’s okay, Mama, I’m fine. I’m fine.”  
  
“Don’t let him take you away again.”  
  
Well, Wylan supposed, at least she remembered. His mama might have been wrong about what happened yesterday, but at least there was consistency to her thinking, at least she wasn’t lost.  
  
“He didn’t take me away. I was in Lij yesterday. I was with Jesper.”  
  
Marya said nothing, so Wylan let her quietly reassure herself of him. He thought about that moment last night—or had it been a dream? He didn’t know if Jesper had actually woken Wylan up in the middle of the night to ask if he wanted to talk or Wylan just invented that, but he remembered the feeling clearly enough. He remembered the last thing Jesper said: _I’m here_. Just like Marya needed to understand from Wylan now.  
  
When her grip eased, he pulled back, gently taking her hands in his.  
  
“We can find a nice girl for you,” Marya said.  
  
That was so unexpected, Wylan was initially speechless. His interests had never been a problem for Jan. It was one of the few things about Wylan that his father saw no cause to ridicule. Wylan supposed that was because a merchant marriage wasn’t about love or attraction. He might not like girls, but if his father had deemed him suited to produce an heir, Wylan had no doubt he would have been capable of the act. Hearing it from his mother—it startled Wylan.  
  
He shook his head. “I don’t like girls that way, Mama.”  
  
“You haven’t met the right one. That’s all.”  
  
Wylan was quite certain that wasn’t the case.  
  
“My Wylan,” Marya said, a note of desperation as she gripped his hands, “sweet boy, you cannot trust men. Find a girl.”  
  
It still hurt, but he understood now. This wasn’t about Wylan and it wasn’t about Jesper. She wanted to protect him from what she had suffered. Wylan considered pointing out that he was almost a man and he was trustworthy, but he didn’t think fighting would help her.  
  
Instead, he changed the subject: “I’m going to church this morning. Would you like to have breakfast with me before I go?”  
  
Wylan had learned that he couldn’t help his mama dress, but even he could manage to help with her dressing gown and slippers. In the kitchen, he put the kettle to boil. Just because Wylan was getting up obscenely early, he hadn’t wanted to put anyone else through the same. He only woke Marya because he knew she had fallen asleep early and would be agitated if she didn’t see him. He had made arrangements with Miss Molenaar regarding what he should leave alone.  
  
“You might’ve woken a servant to do that.”  
  
“Miss Molenaar works very hard, Mama, she deserves her rest.”  
  
The look she gave Wylan made him want to hide and he stubbornly refused to lower his chin. Maybe it was a strange thing to say, but he firmly believed it was also a right thing to say. Yes, the bread was sliced less than evenly, but there was bread and jam and cups of tea, and Wylan was mildly embarrassed at how proud he was to put together a passable breakfast.  
  
His father would be appalled. Wylan felt his ears turning pink with pride at the realization.  
  
“Would you like to tell me about yesterday?” he asked.  
  
Her expression turned stormy. That would be a no, then.  
  
“How are you getting along with Agata?”  
  
Marya sipped her tea. “She’s a nice enough girl. Doesn’t know her pigments.”  
  
“She’s still learning Kerch, Mama.”  
  
There was something else Wylan needed to do. He spoke a little Fjerdan—schoolroom Fjerdan. Merchant children in Kerch were not expected to exactly master a foreign language, it was seen as a polite thing to do, but not necessary. After all, Kerch was the language of trade. In the past few months, Wylan had learned how foolish that was. Now he wanted to improve his Fjerdan. He wanted to learn Zemeni. He wanted to be a part of the world, he wanted—he wanted a terrible lot for a fifteen-year-old boy still learning to put his feet under himself.  
  
“Speaking of pigments, what are you painting these days?”  
  
“The magpies next, I think.”  
  
“Magpies are lovely.”  
  
It was a superficial chat, but a decent enough one. By the time he left the mansion, Wylan felt confident that his mama would be okay through the next few hours.  
  
He had not mentioned to her the company with which he intended to attend services this morning.  
  
Wylan walked up the Geldstraat to a place he vaguely recalled. His father used to take him everywhere when he was small, and if Jan Van Eck was willing to take his son to the Ice Court, of course he took him to visit a peer. So the Radmakker mansion was not entirely unfamiliar.  
  
Wylan met Jellen Radmakker and his sister in the parlor. Both looked as ready for church as he did.  
  
“Good morning, Mister Ramdakker, Miss Radmakker. Thank you for inviting me to join you.”  
  
He didn’t know what to expect. After the mild disaster of a visit, though, he wasn’t surprised Radmakker suggested an alternate location for their next interaction.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Jellen Radmakker said, the little group heading out looking like mourners at a funeral. It made Wylan wish there had been someone to tell him, that morning— _no mourners_. But there hadn’t, and here they all were. “Is Missus… er, Miss…”  
  
“Mama’s not up to joining us,” Wylan supplied, rescuing him from trying to figure out what to call her. “She’s Miss Hendriks now, but she prefers Missus Van Eck.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“She would be quite welcome in my ladies’ group,” offered Miss Radmakker. Aside from the fact that she was a pious old spinster, Wylan knew little about the woman. “We’re having a quilting bee next month, for the foundlings’ home.”  
  
Wylan wondered how many foundlings made it to that home. He wondered how many such places there were in Ketterdam. Certainly not enough…  
  
“That’s very kind of you, ma’am. I’ll be sure she knows. Is that something you do often?”  
  
“There’s plenty of good and pious work to be found in Ketterdam,” Miss Radmakker said.  
  
Wylan nodded. He found himself thinking more often of the Kerch way of worship as a morally bankrupt one, but he wondered if perhaps Miss Radmakker’s way didn’t show another side. He believed in other people. He believed that life was empty without other people in it, that they were, all of them, lost alone. Maybe he couldn’t worship prosperity, but he could respect the idea of a god among whose chief virtues was helping those in need.  
  
He asked Miss Radmakker, “Is it a decent place? The foundlings’ home?”  
  
He had never been. By the time he washed up on the bank of the river, Wylan was too old to seek shelter there or he might have done.  
  
Miss Radmakker sniffed. “It’s hardly a place one frequents… I suppose the staff do as they can, but the children are an ill-bred lot. Always screaming and filthy.”  
  
“It sounds like they don’t have enough staff,” Wylan offered. He had no idea what to do with a child, but he knew they were scarcely at fault for their own filthiness.  
  
“We don’t want to _encourage_ that sort of indolence,” Miss Radmakker said. She seemed to be gathering her energy like Nina waxing poetic about sweets as she continued, “Nor the irresponsibility. The girls in the lower Districts—”  
  
“He’s barely more than a boy himself,” Mister Radmakker said.  
  
His sister’s face took on a pinched look, but she nodded and fell quiet.  
  
_The girls in the lower Districts don’t have a choice_ , Wylan thought. What would Inej or Agata or any girl in their circumstance had been expected to do if they came into the family way? Keep a child when they were children themselves? He doubted the decision would have been left to them, anyway.  
  
He felt a fresh swell of gratitude toward the Radmakkers when they reached the church. The Church of Barter wasn’t just for auctioning away the freedoms of valuable lost children—Wylan’s thoughts turned again to Kuwei, and he couldn’t think of praying to Ghezen for someone’s safety, that wasn’t what Ghezen did, but he _hoped_ for Kuwei’s safety. The Church of Barter was also for worship. Wylan wasn’t sure where he would have sat or with whom, had the Radmakkers not invited him to accompany them. By doing so, they gave Wylan not only a place to sit but a degree of belonging.  
  
The prayers came with surprising ease. Wylan had been raised in this church. He had no need to search for the words.  
  
He felt the stares on him, especially in the beginning. With the service underway, it was kept to a minimum, the occasional curious glance. He hadn’t spent much time among the merchant class and wondered what they must think of him. No one could say, _that’s my old friend, Wylan Van Eck, we grew up together._ At best they could say, _that’s Wylan Van Eck, we used to see one another at dinners at someone’s father’s home but we never spoke much_.  
  
Wylan Van Eck, who disappeared, who may as well never have been there to begin with.  
  
Wylan Van Eck, who returned battered and broken in this very church. He wondered if his blood had left stains. Then again, there had very nearly been a stampede after Jesper shot Kuwei—how would he know which blood was his?  
  
Wylan Van Eck.  
  
One of _those_ Van Ecks.  
  
His father had been arrested for interfering with the markets.  
  
His father was the one who said his wife was dead but now she’s back!  
  
Wylan focused on his prayers to a god he knew his heart did not worship. He tried not to fidget as the hard bench and the long sermon numbed his backside. Appearances, that’s all it was. He would just get through this morning. Then he could go home to Jesper.  
  
A smile tugged at Wylan’s mouth and he forced it back. This was not the time for smiling and thus, not the time for thinking about Jesper.  
  
Wylan was admittedly relieved when it was time to leave. At least, he was when until leaving the church, and realizing the conversations outside were just as awkward. He noticed others his own age forming small groups, but did not approach them, staying close instead beside Mister Radmakker. Maybe it was his own anxiety prickling the back of his neck. Maybe they actually were gossiping about him.  
  
It was easier to focus on Radmakker, Boreg, Schenck, and Dryden’s conversation about mining. Wylan filtered in the new information as he thought about what Kaz had said. _Sad little Skiv,_ he had called Dryden. He wasn’t wrong. Dryden kept to the edges of the conversation just as Wylan did, present, not really engaging.  
  
At least until things took a disturbing turn as Schenck described the conditions in one of his mines.  
  
“…quite well enough,” Schenck said, “as long as they rotate out within the hour, though the profit margins are taking a hit.”  
  
“Inconvenient,” commented Boreg.  
  
“Terribly,” agreed Schenck, “especially as we just reopened after the fire.”  
  
Wylan had done too well in his chemistry lessons not to have a suspicion by now. “Mister Schenck, has anyone complained about an odd smell in the mine?”  
  
Schenck gave Wylan a look that said the question was most unwelcome, but answered anyway, “There were comments that it smelled of bad eggs, but the smell goes away quickly enough. What of it?”  
  
“You’re describing hydrogen sulfide,” Wylan explained. “The smell goes away because it kills the sense of smell. It’s a toxic gas, sir.”  
  
“What of it?” Schenck repeated. He was bristling now; it was clear he did not appreciate advice from one so young.

Radmakker cleared his throat. “Does everyone remember Jan’s son, Wylan? He does well in chemistry.”  
  
“I remember Jan saying that,” Karl Dryden offered.  
  
“Hydrogen sulfide is poisonous,” Wylan said. He sensed disapproval in Radmakker, but persisted all the same: “Your men are in danger working there, Mister Schenck.”  
  
Schenck shook his head. “Wouldn’t expect him to understand, not at his age. It’s a rich vein of gold, boy.”  
  
“What’s a vein of gold against a vein of blood?”  
   
More than one conversation trailed off nearby, and now Wylan was quite certain he wasn’t imagining the attention on him.  
  
“A vein of gold is wealth,” Schenck said, “the very lifeblood of Kerch.”  
  
There were murmurs of approval. Wylan thought the whole business was sickening. Those men working that mine, they could die. They _would_ die. Schenck was willing to send them into poisoned air, and he was proud of it—for gold.  
  
“What is Kerch if not her people, Mister Schenck?”  
  
“Her _wealth_ ,” said Schenck, with such condescension Wylan actually missed Kaz. Sure, Kaz would give him those pitying looks, but he rarely cut Wylan down for his ignorance. And this wasn’t ignorance! Wylan had to remind himself that he wasn’t wrong. Schenck was wrong—morally.  
  
“Gold does not live and breathe,” Wylan said, “and _kruge_ can’t keep you warm at night.”  
  
Schenck laughed at Wylan. “That’s why you buy a quilt with it.”  
  
“Superficially,” Wylan ceded.  
  
“You wouldn’t understand. You’re just a child.”  
  
“I’m old enough to know it takes a cold heart to rest easy sending men to their deaths to plump his own coffers.”  
  
Wylan was pretty sure he hadn’t phrased that right, but the only thing carrying him at this point was confidence. He forced his demeanor to stay cool. He had stepped deep into this and if he backtracked even a bit, he knew he would lose.  
  
Schenck’s response was a raised hand. It was clear he had lost control in that moment, Wylan saw the moment Schenck realized that had been a slip, the moment he committed to it. Wylan could have laughed. He had faced the Bastard of the Barrel. Bastards of the Council were a different breed, too cowardly to do the dirty work.  
  
“Put that hand down, Mister Schenck,” Wylan warned. He kept his voice steady. It hid the fear and anger racing his heart.  
  
“You accuse me of murder.”  
  
“I called it what it was,” Wylan replied. “You don’t have to operate a poisoned mine. You shouldn’t.”  
  
“And you shouldn’t run your mouth to your betters.”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
It took a moment for the insult to sink in. When it did, Radmakker made the first move, stepping between Wylan and Schenck as Dryden put a hand on Schenck’s shoulder.  
  
“I remember you as a child, Wylan Van Eck,” Schenck said. “You showed your breeding. Clearly that horrid Zemeni’s been a bad influence.”  
  
Wylan barely registered that time had passed, only felt himself lunging and heard the commotion as several people jumped to hold him back. He wasn’t even sure what their names were. He supposed that ought to matter. But right now, the biggest matter was getting to Hiram Schenck and punching his sodding lights in.  
  
“Enough! Wylan, stop. _Stop!_ ”  
  
He shook himself. Radmakker. Seeing the man’s face, Wylan finally felt what he should have felt minutes ago: a hot rush of shame. Radmakker had invited Wylan to accompany him to church, a kind gesture he had no obligation to make, and what did Wylan do? Caused a scene. Fought with a councilman. Nearly punched him.  
  
He showed his weakness, that’s what his father would say, and it shamed him impossibly more to realize. Now everyone would know the way to make Wylan lose control was to go through Jesper—he had made Jesper vulnerable in a way Wylan never wanted him to be.  
  
“I… I’m sorry, Mister Radmakker.” Wylan pointedly did not apologize to Schenck. Murdering, racist old podge. With a nod to Radmakker, Wylan turned to go.  
  
“I dread to think how a boy like _that_ spends his days,” muttered Schenck just loud enough for Wylan to hear.  
  
He turned back. “I’m heading home to see that my mother is well,” he said, “by way of the florist’s, to pick up roses for that horrid Zemeni.”  
  
Wylan might be young and yes, his partner was another boy, but when was the last time any of these sorry sops bought their wives roses? Judging from the looks on the women’s faces, it had been a while in several cases.  
  
Satisfied, Wylan turned, this time striding away and refusing to look back.  
  
“At least three of those girls were drooling over you.”  
  
“ _I don’t like_ _girls!_ ”  
  
Ghezen, why couldn’t he escape that! Inej _knew_ Wylan didn’t like girls! She knew he liked Jesper!  
  
“Stop,” Inej said, falling into step beside him, “you’re not angry with me.”  
  
Wylan sighed. It was true. He knew it was.  
  
“I’m sorry I raised my voice, Inej.”  
  
“I accept your apology.”  
  
He didn’t ask what she was doing here or why she had been watching. That was simply what Inej did. She was the Wraith, a thief of secrets. She went where worthwhile things might happen.  
  
“It’s important, though. You made enemies back there.”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “I know. I know. I messed up.”  
  
_Think of how easily swindled a boy like you can be. Someone will tell you what’s written on a page and you know no better than to believe them._  
  
He knew it wasn’t true. At least—not all of it. He couldn’t read, but he wasn’t stupid. He was doing fine. It still hurt to hear his father’s voice in his head after such a massive error. Kaz would mock him, too.  
  
But… Matthias might not, Wylan ventured. Matthias might disapprove of the approach, but he would approve of standing up for the vulnerable. The miners needed the work, probably too much to just walk away. Schenck was taking advantage of that need.  
  
“How have you been?” he asked. He had barely seen Inej for two days!  
  
“I needed a breath,” she admitted. “I told my parents the truth. They still love me, but it’s hard for them. Sometimes I can see that they’re looking at me and thinking about it. They love me and I love them, but…”  
  
He hated to see her at a loss for words. Inej _always_ knew the right words to say, either Suli wisdom or her own. Maybe it had been easier without the emotional tangles. He realized she had the chance to remake herself in the Barrel. So had he, but Inej had remade herself strong, trustworthy, admirable. She made herself independent.  
  
“Sankta,” Wylan said softly, reaching for her hand.  
  
They walked in silence for a few moments. He understood her pain. It was not dissimilar to how he felt with his mama, that he was still her son, but they needed to learn how to love each other now that he wasn’t her little boy like he had been last time they were together. He did not know how to put it into words, though, nor how to make it better.  
  
When they reached the florist, Wylan scanned the flowers on offer.  
  
“A mix?” he suggested to Inej.  
  
He put together the brightest colors he could find. Wylan might like a bunch of red or white roses. Not Jesper. For Jesper, Wylan chose a mix of reds and oranges and yellows, solids and splotched roses. He did it artistically, like he was making a painting with flowers.  
  
“What do you think?” he asked. In fact, Wylan was sure. Beautifully and bright and so many colors, it was perfect for Jesper—but he wanted Inej’s input anyway.  
  
Inej smiled. “I think I’m jealous of Jesper.”  
  
“Your boyfriend gave you a ship and found your parents,” Wylan retorted, counting out kruge for the florist.  
  
“You’ve been good for Jesper.”  
  
Thinking about his tears the past couple of days, Wylan shook his head. He could have been better. The florist finished tying a big red bow around the roses and handed them to Wylan, who thanked him and headed for home, Inej beside him.  
  
“He needs your kindness.”  
  
Wylan didn’t disagree. Everyone deserved kindness, but he tried to show Jesper his best. He remembered last night, Jesper waking him—probably waking him? It felt like a dream. Would he dream Jesper asking for the good and bad of him?  
  
He said, “I love him, Inej. I’ll take care of him.”  
  
“I know you will.”  
  
The words were still echoing in Wylan’s head when he reached the mansion. Why was it so much easier to tell Inej he loved Jesper than to tell _Jesper_? Was he keeping his word? He was supposed to be taking care of Jesper, and here he was feeling the embarrassment of his outburst and all he wanted was Jesper.  
  
Jesper grinned when he saw the flowers. It was enough to make Wylan blush.  
  
“You’re prettier than roses when you blush,” Jesper said, which made Wylan blush even more.  
  
Jesper was clearly thrilled.  
  
“How was church?”  
  
Wylan opened his mouth to answer, but he just—couldn’t. He closed the already minimal distance between them and wrapped an arm around Jesper, pressing his face to Jesper’s shoulder.  
  
“I was so…”  
  
Stupid.  
  
He was stupid.  
  
But Wylan knew Jesper wouldn’t hold with that, so he amended, “I was such a spectacular ass.”  
  
“Fitting,” Jesper said, “since you have such a spectacular ass.”  
  
Wylan laughed weakly. “You haven’t seen my ass.”  
  
Which, Jesper ceded, “True, but I can tell.”  
  
“It wasn’t as bad as all that,” Inej said.  
  
They took cups of coffee and went to sit on the stairs outside overlooking the canal. It was a fine day. There was a nip in the air, but a mild nip, the sort that meant spring was firmly settled in Ketterdam. The late nights, the early mornings, they were still cold, but the afternoon brought a blue sky with few, faint clouds.  
  
Softly, Wylan confessed, “I tried to punch Hiram Schenck.”  
  
As much as his words were soft, Jesper’s were loud. He laughed and pulled Wylan into a hug so sudden Wylan yelped and struggled not to spill his coffee.  
  
“I’m so proud!” Jesper cried, planting a kiss on Wylan’s cheek. Wylan enjoyed the attention far too much.  
  
“Stop encouraging this!”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Jesper said, solemn, “you’re right. Trying to punch a senior member of the Merchant Council was wrong of you, Wylan.”  
  
“Thank you.” Wylan was relieved to hear Jesper taking this seriously.  
  
“Clearly a spanking is called for.”  
  
“Jesper!”  
  
Wylan wasn’t sure how to react to that besides yelping, blushing so hotly it hurt, and this time splashing half his coffee down the stairs.  
  
Jesper drew him into a hug, the kind Wylan knew wouldn’t end anytime soon.  
  
“I love you so much.”  
  
Wylan squeezed Jesper’s hands. He couldn’t kiss his knuckles in this position, so he settled for tapping them. Everything, the challenges with his mama and the ills of Ketterdam and the disaster at church and their difficult chat last night, it all dissipated in this moment. There was nothing but Jesper and his arms around Wylan and Inej giving them both that secret-keeping smile.  
  
“It wasn’t terrible,” Inej said. “Wylan identified a likely poison in one of Schenck’s mines. Schenck insisted he would use the mine anyway.”  
  
“He’s risking men’s lives for profit,” Wylan said, the distaste thick in his tone.  
  
The whole business was reprehensible to him. He knew it honored Ghezen. He knew it was the way of Kerch. But it turned his stomach and he prayed to the Saints that he would never become so cold.  
  
“It may work to your favor. Some of the girls were impressed.”  
  
“Their fathers weren’t,” Wylan said, “and it’s not the girls who vote on the Council.”  
  
“Still, you could cultivate the attitude, cast yourself as the reformer.”  
  
Or he could bow and scrape and throw himself on their mercy, a lost boy in need of guidance. It would appeal to the vanity of the Council. It would, Wylan thought, _work_.  
  
“I don’t want to cast myself,” Wylan objected. “I just want to be me.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” Jesper said.  
  
Wylan was surprised and confused by that.  
  
“You don’t want to be yourself for them,” Jesper said. “ _I_ don’t want you to be yourself for them. Wylan, your father was a special kind of evil, but he’s not the only one. Don’t trust the Council.”  
  
Inej nodded. “He’s right,” she agreed. “You need a spider.”  
  
“A spider!” Wylan cried.  
  
“Jan had a spy network,” Inej said.  
  
Wylan knew he would have inherited that network… _if_ Jan wanted Wylan inheriting the merchant empire. He didn’t. Wylan wanted to ask what would happen if he just played it honest. Couldn’t he do that? Take risks and hedge his bets? But he knew he couldn’t. How many men and women depended on him for gainful employment? He couldn’t be a risk-taker like Jesper had been. He needed to be a chessmaster. He needed to be like Kaz.  
  
_In this and only this way_.  
  
“I don’t know how to find a spider,” he admitted, “but I’ll work on it. Thank you. I’m lucky to have your help.”  
  
“You are,” Jesper said.  
  
“You’re welcome,” Inej said.  
  
He supposed he ought to have known all of that already. Maybe it was the emotional tangles of the morning; it was his first time really interacting with the Merchant Council. There was still the situation with Radmakker. Wylan wasn’t sure what to do about that—Radmakker had been kind to him, and while Wylan didn’t entirely regret what he had done, he regretted involving Radmakker by association. At least… he was pretty sure Radmakker had been kind…  
  
“There’s one more thing…” He looked to Inej. _Thank you_. It was in his eyes, if not his words. _Thank you, Inej, but…._ “I didn’t try to hit Schenck for what he said about the mines. It was because he talked about you, Jes. I’m sorry.” Wylan meant that. Jesper was still holding him and Wylan felt his tension, but, “I showed them where I’m weak and it might happen again. I didn’t want to lie.”  
  
“So… those were guilt roses,” Jesper surmised.  
  
Wylan nodded.  
   
To his surprise, Jesper only laughed.  
  
“Wy,” he said, “you tried to punch an old man to defend my honor. I’m not even going to pretend I’m offended. Feel free to punch people and bring me flowers any time.”  
  
“Do I have to do both?”  
  
“Yes. You absolutely have to do both.”  
  
“I can’t just bring you flowers?”  
  
“No, you’ve set the bar, I only want flowers after you’ve punched an old man.”  
  
Wylan laughed. “You make me so happy,” he said, and Jesper replied with a kiss.  
  
After a moment’s quiet—Wylan just enjoyed being here, being with his friends—Inej said, “Kaz wanted you to know that you’re missed around the Slat.”  
  
Wylan bristled. He had no doubt Inej had her reasons for saying it… but she kept Kaz’s secrets. Couldn’t she have kept this one, too? Jesper didn’t need that. He needed to stop pining, to move on. He didn’t need to be pulled into this business again. He heard Jesper’s breath catch. Before, his hands had been fairly still, his arms around Wylan. One hand moved to fidget with Wylan’s hair.  
  
Which is likely why Jesper replied to learning Kaz missed him with, “Your hair’s much nicer without oil.”  
  
“It’s okay, Jes. It's okay if it bothers you.”  
  
“It’s okay _now_. Without the oil, it’s great.”  
  
That wasn’t what he meant, as Jesper well knew.

“Jes.”

“Do you mind?”

“Do you love me?” Wylan asked.  
  
Jesper’s voice was laced with anticipation as he replied, so much so that Wylan wanted to skip over the logical lead to his conclusion… but he needed the background. He needed to establish facts between them.  
  
“Yes,” Jesper said.  
  
“Do you want me?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Wylan reached for Jesper’s hand, the one currently bunched in Wylan’s shirt, and said, “Then it’s okay. Did you really think I couldn’t see how you felt about him? But you’re here with me now.”  
  
A part of Wylan was stunned by it. Jesper could have stayed with Kaz. For all his cruelty, Kaz had not forced Jesper to leave, that had been Jesper’s choice. It was about his father, too, but this was still what he had chosen. He chose Ketterdam. He chose _Wylan_.  
  
Failing to find interest in his oiled hair, Jesper took one of Wylan’s hands instead, stroking his fingers, curling them, generally fidgeting.  
  
“Is there someone else for you?”  
  
“No.” Wylan drew Jesper’s hand to his lips for a kiss. “You’re my only.”  
  
Glancing over, Wylan saw Inej’s hand on Jesper’s shoulder. He knew this wasn’t the reaction she expected. Jesper was changed, though. He wasn’t the same person she had known so well, any more than Kaz or Wylan was the same person they had been a few months ago. For all his determined sharp edges, Kaz had been genuinely concerned with Inej coming home. He had worried—in his own way—when he saw Wylan’s bruises.  
  
They all had room to grow. Wasn’t that what they were supposed to be doing? Growing?  
  
He caught Inej’s eye and she gave him a small smile.  
  
_He needs your kindness_.  
  
“You’ve lived a bigger life,” Wylan reasoned. “I never had anyone to fall in love with. You’re here with me. That’s what matters.”  
  
He said it as much to assuage Jesper as to reassure himself. Well… maybe he said it _mostly_ for Jesper, but Wylan needed the reassurance, too. He needed to hear that he had been chosen rather than settled for. That was where he wanted Jesper’s attention, too.  
  
Going forward, they would find a way for Jesper and Kaz to be friends. Beneath the manipulation, there had been genuine trust between them, and Wylan liked to think Kaz cared about Jesper in his own way. He did not want to be the reason that friendship, such as it was, ended. It just needed to change.  
  
“Wy? You okay there, gorgeous?”  
  
Wylan realized his mind had drifted off. He had been staring past the canal.  
  
“I’m fine. I was just thinking about you. How funny you are, how caring… just how perfect you are in so many ways. All the ways you make my life better.”  
  
“You’ll need a while to think all that over,” Jesper said, drawing Wylan into a cuddle.  
  
“So what?” Wylan countered, settling against Jesper. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“This is what I meant,” Inej commented softly. Her tone was almost impassive but for the thread of ‘I told you so’. That, in her dry way, had been a joke!  
  
Wylan laughed.  
  
“What is?” Jesper asked. “What?” But they only shook their heads.


	35. Wylan's Last Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Suicidal thoughts/behavior. Wylan talks to Jesper about his previous thoughts/plans/attempt to end his life. It relates a lot to his father’s abuse and internalized blame; some of it is romanticized in his mind, but I tried to acknowledge that these are his thoughts and he now knows they’re wrong. There’s nothing physically graphic but it is emotionally detailed.
> 
> Please, please, please read the trigger warning. This isn’t alluded to, it’s the center of the chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Regarding perspective – I’ve tried to keep true to the books’ style of a single perspective per chapter, but this one needed both Jesper’s and Wylan’s thoughts.

“I’ve never known you to draw metaphors,” Jesper remarked, peering over Wylan’s shoulder. The page in front of Wylan was swirled with half-sketches of music notes and shoes and cakes. It did not come together to form a coherent picture.  
  
He had found Wylan on the back stairs, hunched over his sketchpad. Morning wasn’t properly underway yet, and the fog put a chill in the air.  
  
“They’re not metaphors,” Wylan said, “they’re pieces of an idea.”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
Jesper sat beside Wylan.  
  
“Here,” he said, nudging Wylan and offering a mug of coffee. “We can share.”  
  
“Thanks.” Wylan took a sip and offered the mug back. He tucked his pencil behind his ear. Red-gold hair curled around it.  
  
Today work had begun on the hole in the dining room ceiling and office floor. Even from the canal-side stairs, they heard the banging of tools, albeit faint.  
  
Jesper reached over to push his fingers through Wylan’s hair.  
  
“No oil today?”  
  
“That was only for church.”  
  
Jesper replied with a soft hum. He knew Wylan wasn’t entirely recovered from that trip to church. Last night, he had been twitchy, groaning about what a mistake he had made. Personally Jesper saw no good in dwelling. They could dwell maybe on how entirely okay it was for Wylan to bring Jesper flowers any time. They could dwell on why Ghezen was a ridiculous excuse for a god. Hell, they could talk about Jesper’s feelings for Kaz, embarrassing as it was he would take that over Wylan working himself up over sassing an old man.  
  
His once-innocent merchling had been _thoroughly_ corrupted and no amount of teasing could fix it! Jesper would keep trying, though. He was a good sport that way.  
  
Wylan, meanwhile, was gnawing his thumb. He wasn’t nervous about _this_. He was nervous, but it wasn’t about this. If anything, he thought Jesper would like this idea, but…  
  
“Will you help me throw a party?”  
  
Magpies filled the ensuing silence.  
  
“A party?” Jesper repeated.  
  
“I was thinking about having a birthday party.”  
  
“Birthday party. Got it. Paper hats, noisemakers—”  
  
“Ghezen,” Wylan whimpered. He should have known Jesper wasn’t going to make this easy and was half afraid paper hats and noisemakers really would make an appearance. “A _sixteenth_ birthday party! I want—if we do this, I want to invite the neighbors.”  
  
“Merchers? I don’t know anything about a dinner party, Wylan.”  
  
Wylan shook his head. “Their children. Inej was right, this could be an opportunity for me. The men will never truly see me as an equal. Even Dryden is almost twice my age. No matter what I do, they’ll see a child. Their children, though—I can make allies of the children. But they know each other and don’t know me. I want to be like you.”  
  
“You are like me. You’re brilliant, gorgeous, a wonderful boyfriend… I’m a better kisser but other mercher kids don’t need to know that.”  
  
Jesper thought about remarking that Wylan couldn’t kiss well but he was great at _other_ things with his mouth—like playing the flute, of course!—when Wylan spoke up first.  
  
“I’m not fun,” Wylan said.  
  
“Sure you are.”  
  
“No, I’m not.”  
  
“Yes you—”  
  
Wylan turned and placed a finger to Jesper’s lips. Jesper’s eyebrows rose, but he stayed quiet. For now.  
  
“I’m not putting myself down, Jesper. I’m not fun. Objectively. You’re fun. You shine, you spark… _you_ are the party. I’m not like that. I take getting to know. Okay?”  
  
Jesper nodded and Wylan moved his hand.  
  
“If you want it, you’ll have a birthday party,” Jesper promised. “A fun one.” It would be a scramble at the last minute, but that was the environment in which Jesper thrived. Last minute. Parties. They would have to have a chat about how to make a proper Barrel party seem fitting for baby merchers. But first… “Why don’t you play your flute anymore?”  
  
Wylan had a mouthful of coffee when Jesper asked, so it was a moment before he replied: “What?”  
  
“Your flute. Why haven’t I heard you play?”  
  
Wylan loved that flute. He loved his flute like Jesper loved his guns, Inej loved her knives, Kaz loved his cane—Jesper sensed a pattern here, but in this environment it made Wylan sweet, not useless. Not that he had really been useless. Just—learning. For a while he was learning.  
  
Yet in weeks living together, Jesper hadn’t heard him play. Now that he thought about it, he had never heard Wylan play his flute.  
  
“You meant what you said that night, didn’t you?” Wylan asked. “About… wanting all of me, the good and the bad?”  
  
Jesper was quiet for too long.  
  
Wylan wanted to jump in and tell him it was okay if he didn’t mean that. It had been the middle of the night after a long day, he was still worn out, it was a lot to deal with—he didn’t have to mean it. He wanted to say he had just been kidding. But he wanted an answer, too. He risked a sideways glance, but held his tongue.  
  
“I meant it.”  
  
Wylan nodded. He rubbed his arms. The sun wasn’t high enough yet to have burnt off the morning cold.  
  
“Is there something you wanted to tell me, sunshine?”  
  
Even the thought of it made Wylan choke. He didn’t know if he could put it into words, even wanting to. He wasn’t good with words, not reading them or saying them, it was why Jesper still didn’t understand that Jan just took things too far. Maybe he hit too hard or too much, but…  
  
“It’s easier if I show you,” Wylan said.  
  
Jesper drained the last of the coffee. “Okay.”  
  
“I don’t know if I can do it without crying,” he blurted. He had to blurt that, because he _really_ didn’t want to say it, but it needed to be said.  
  
“I don’t mind when you cry,” Jesper said with a shrug. “I mean—I mind when you’re hurt, but I like when I can help.”  
  
Wylan led the way up to his old bedroom. The nursery. Everything his mama hadn’t destroyed had been sent to Alys’s family; it was just a room now, empty. Wylan wasn’t sure he liked it this way, either. He didn’t know what to do with it. Being in this room brought on a wave of painful feelings. If only it could be ripped out of the house, erased and the memories along with it.  
  
He sat by the window with his back to the wall and ran his fingers along the floorboards. When he found the right one, he pried it up. The gap beneath was small, just large enough to conceal the cloth-wrapped bundle he carefully lifted. Seeing that bundle again made Wylan shudder. Touching it…  
  
“Wylan.”  
  
Jesper was next to him, a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of his head and back into the empty room.  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
It wasn’t, but Wylan nodded. He replaced the board, then cradled the bundle in his hands. His heart hurt, like each beat took too much effort, like each beat might be his last. He wanted to put the bundle back and pretend he had never done this, he wanted to tell Jesper it had all been a joke, he wanted… he wanted… he wanted the end without the journey. He wanted Jesper to know and accept without needing to be told.  
  
He looked from the dirty cloth—it had been a handkerchief, once—to Jesper. It felt like a stone in his belly, holding this again. That feeling he had carried for so long—a stone inside him that made him sick and sapped his energy.  
  
“I don’t want you to think I’m weak,” Wylan explained.  
  
Jesper sat beside Wylan, so still Wylan could almost cry from it.  
  
“I don’t think that,” he said.  
  
But he didn’t know.  
  
“Living with him, it—he controlled everything I knew, so he controlled everything I thought. No, I shouldn’t blame him, but I want you to understand. I didn’t think I was worth anything because _he_ didn’t think I was worth anything.”  
  
Jesper nodded.  
  
Wylan didn’t add that he _hadn’t_ been worth anything. He didn’t think Jesper would accept that, even though he knew as well as anyone that Wylan had been useless until the past few months.  
  
“I didn’t want to disappoint him anymore.” The words were half a whisper. “I didn’t want to hurt.”  
  
And it _had_ hurt. Ghezen and all his works, it had hurt then, and the memory of that pain hurt now.  
  
The hardest, in all of this, was looking at Jesper, watching the understanding and the fear of that understanding grow in his eyes. Wylan wanted to look away. He knew he could. He could put his head in his hands and Jesper would let him, but he needed to face this shame.  
  
Wylan licked his lips nervously.  
  
He unwrapped the handkerchief. Now he wasn’t holding a bundle in his hands. He was holding a straight razor and a bottle of arsenic.  
  
Jesper looked to the things in his hands, then back to Wylan’s face. He didn’t know what to say, Wylan could tell he didn’t.  
  
“Wylan… I…”  
  
“It’s okay. Whatever you think, it’s okay, if you don’t trust me anymore or if you want to leave, I would understand that, but I don’t want to hide things from you and you said you wanted all of me. This is part of me, too. Not… a good part. It was different before, I was—I was alone, I didn’t think I could ever do anything, be anything. That I would always disappoint him. I… I guess I thought… that he would be better off without me.”  
  
Not really something he ‘guessed’. Wylan knew that. He had spent many nights here, holding them. Contemplating. Trying to convince himself that life was worth living, that _his life_ was worth living. Trying to believe his father would rather a living, broken boy to a dead one. Not even sure why he bothered trying.  
  
“I wanted to be a good son. I wanted… to… she was gone, all my grandparents are dead, we were all the family each other had. I wanted him to have a good son…”  
  
Wylan saw the wobbling at the edges of his vision and felt the hot streaks of tears cutting down his face. He sniffed but refused to drop his chin.  
  
“But if I couldn’t take away the shame of what I was by being better, then… I…”  
  
“You didn’t want to burden him,” Jesper supplied.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He didn’t want to say this part.  
  
He felt like he couldn’t get the air for it.  
  
He didn’t want to say this part…  
  
“I only tried it once. I vomited it back up. I couldn’t even…”  
  
Jesper shifted closer and put an arm around Wylan, and Wylan snuggled close, grateful for him, for the comfort and safety of being next to him.  
  
The words were coming now whether Wylan liked it or not, and he couldn’t stop them.  
  
Things like, “Please don’t think I’m past fixing.”  
  
And, “It was a long time ago.”  
  
And, “That’s not who I am anymore.”  
  
And, “I wanted you to know the truth.”  
  
And, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”  
  
When he did stop, Wylan knew he was done guiding the conversation. He had said everything he could; now it was Jesper’s turn to say what he needed to say. A part of Wylan was glad. Whatever Jesper wanted to say, Wylan was ready to hear, but he felt too wrung out to say more himself.  
  
As for Jesper, somewhere under the pain and the anger, he was… confused. When did he become the sort of person someone poured their heart out to? When did he seek it out? Maybe he had always been this way. He was drawn to intensity—the loudest laughter, the fiercest love. The sharpest pain? Maybe.  
  
“First,” Jesper began, “I am glad you’re here. I’m glad you didn’t… succeed. Second, he’s not your father anymore. You’re Colm Fahey’s son. Okay?”  
  
Wylan sniffled and laughed at the same time. “That’s sweet, but you can’t—”  
  
“I’ll ask him when I write, but I know he’ll say yes. He’ll be your da. You want that, right?”  
  
Wylan nodded before he could think better of it. He was fairly certain that the moment they met Colm Fahey, every single one of them had wanted him to be their da, even Matthias. Even Kaz, deep down. When he heard Colm not only accept Jesper for his mistakes but take some of the blame himself so it wasn’t Jesper’s to carry alone, Wylan had needed to force away memories of his own father.  
  
“Good. Jan Van Eck doesn’t deserve you, beautiful.”  
  
“He… made mistakes, but he did his best.”  
  
“No, my da made mistakes. Jan abused you.”  
  
The word made Wylan squirm. It made him feel like a part of something much larger that he didn’t deserve to be a part of. It was no secret what happened to Inej or to Agata or to hundreds, maybe thousands of others. _They_ were abused. Wylan just got hit sometimes. Calling what happened to him ‘abuse’ was making it so much bigger than it was and made him sound stronger than he was.  
  
“It wasn’t really… anyway, he kept me here. Fed, clothed, roof over my head.”  
  
“Those aren’t luxuries. Every child should have that, every parent owes their child that.”  
  
He knew that for a fact.  
  
He knew because his da said so.  
  
When Jesper wanted to work with a local gunsmith, at first, Jesper had denied it, even though he practically bolted to the gunsmith’s any time they were in town. He was finally old enough to be of use on the farm, though. He was more important there. When he said as much, he hadn’t at first understood the almost angry indignation with which Colm responded. Later, he had explained that no, theirs wasn’t the most prosperous farm around, but he could provide the basics for his son. He could provide food and shelter and an education—both the basic academic sort and the sort that allowed Jesper to follow his interests.  
  
At the time, Jesper had just been relieved Da wasn’t mad at him. Looking back now, he realized how hurt he’d been. He would mention it next time. Not the actual incident. Just how grateful he was to have a da who encouraged him.  
  
Jan Van Eck was not like Colm Fahey, however.  
  
“Besides,” Jesper reasoned, frustration creeping into his voice, “it was his own reputation he took care of, not just you. Think about how people would have talked if Councilman Jan Van Eck’s son went about begging and dressed in rags.”  
  
It stung to realize, but that was nearly what happened. Maybe not the begging, but working in a tannery wasn’t much better. It would kill you.  
  
“Then what about all the tutors?” Wylan pointed out. “Not just anyone, either, the best he could find, the ones with the highest likelihood of helping me.”  
  
That was the part Wylan wished he could make Jesper understand. His father had tried. He really, really tried to make Wylan better—maybe it wasn’t an _affliction_ exactly, but Jan saw it that way. He tried to help. Hadn’t Wylan’s father paid, not only for the expertise of tutors and specialists, but for their silence? Hadn’t he paid them to keep Wylan’s dirty little secret? One single sentence in the wrong ear and Wylan would be a laughingstock and his father had protected him from that.  
  
Wylan had always known, always feared it. That was something else he prepared for. If it started—he had always known. If the rumors started, he would not put his father through that humiliation, he would have ended his life without hesitation.  
  
Jesper just didn’t understand…  
  
“It wasn’t like that, and you know it. He paid them to try to reshape you into the son he wanted. It was for him, not you.”  
  
“That’s not true! He… he also paid for music and art lessons, and he didn’t see any value in those.”  
  
“That doesn’t make him a good father!” Jesper burst out. He'd reached his limit. “A good father would have encouraged your talent even if it wasn’t what he wanted! Good fathers love their sons! They hold them when they hurt and teach them to be men and forgive them when they make mistakes! That’s what a good father is! There is something _wrong_ with your father!”  
  
Wylan motioned frantically, eyes darting between Jesper and the door. Ghezen, he’d left the door open!  
   
“Please, Jes, I don’t want Mama overhearing. Please. I don’t want her to know. She won’t understand—”  
  
“ _You_ don’t understand! Saints, that son of a bitch tried to kill you and you’re still defending him! How can you be this—”  
  
Jesper fell silent at the look on Wylan’s face. Stricken. Defeated. Too late, Jesper brought his anger in check. When he was upset, too upset even for the tables, Jesper tended to hug his knees, sulk. Wylan… it was like watching a house of cards fall. It was like watching the light that was _Wylan_ go out in his eyes.  
  
“Stubborn. I was going to say stubborn.”  
  
Wylan nodded. He sniffled, but he still had his hands full and didn’t move to wipe his face.  
  
Jesper stood and went to close the door, then came back, sat beside Wylan. He took the arsenic and the razor and set them aside, then pulled Wylan close to him.  
  
Wylan only minded because it meant Jesper was upset. He turned a desperate sort of cuddly when he was upset.  
  
_I never should have said anything._  
  
“You deserve to be furious with your father. You deserve a father who loves you, and he doesn’t deserve a son who works so hard to find a shred of goodness in the bad he does.”  
  
Wylan didn’t know how to respond. It was like all the blood had fallen out and left him cold and still. Jesper thought he was stupid. Jesper could claim he was going to say ‘stubborn’, but Wylan knew how a person looked right before they called him stupid.  
  
“Please just say it.”  
  
“What do you want me to say?” Jesper would say anything. He was good at saying things. He excelled at saying things! Whatever Wylan wanted, he would say it.  
  
“I’m stupid.”  
  
…except that.  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
“I know you think it. Just say it and get it over with.”  
  
“I was angry. I lost control. I just—I was angry. You’re not stupid, Wy.”  
  
Wylan trembled. He actually _trembled_ , like he had that night in the dining room. It was hard to believe this was the same person who brought him roses yesterday, who stood up to the Merchant Council to defend his honor. Jesper was impressed. Saddened, concerned, but impressed that Wylan could carry this around inside him and still seem put together. He was concerned that he hadn’t realized it was this bad.  
  
Did Wylan think this was normal? Had his father taught him that this was how men should treat him? Saints—did he think Jesper would hit him?! Just like his father had. Just like Kaz… even if Kaz only pushed him around and Matthias only glared at him and Jesper only told some jokes that maybe were meaner than they were funny, he realized now that Wylan probably hadn’t spent any time with men who were kind to him because people deserved kindness. Jesper hoped some of his tutors had been encouraging.  
  
Colm, though. Wylan had met Colm.  
  
“Yesterday… um, that thing I said about spanking you, that was just a joke. You know that was a joke, right?”  
  
Wylan nodded against Jesper’s chest.  
  
“Because I wouldn’t do that,” Jesper insisted. “I wouldn’t hit you.” Unless he was into it, but they could save _that_ discussion for another day.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So you weren’t scared?”  
  
“No… just—you know I get embarrassed about…”  
  
“Rolling in the hay?”  
  
Wylan chuckled. It was weak, but it was a chuckle, and Jesper suddenly saw light at the end of this tunnel.  
  
“Knocking boots?”  
  
“Jes…”  
  
“Going after it? Having a private rugby match? Grinding corn?”  
  
“Y-you can’t—you can’t just—you can’t just say random things and make them mean… that!” Wylan objected.  
  
Jesper was quite certain he could.  
  
“Yes I can.”  
  
“Ghezen, you can,” Wylan realized.  
  
“Visiting the canal,” Jesper said, making his tone as suggestive as possible. “Brewing coffee. Painting.”  
  
“Stop!” Wylan cried, but he was laughing now. “Stop, it’s too much!”  
  
Jesper kissed his hair, the most readily available part of him. “If you’re sure you’ve had enough.”  
  
“I’m sure,” Wylan said. “Thank you. I’m sorry about… I didn’t realize I—I mean, I knew I would cry, but…”  
  
“With everything you’ve been through—”  
  
“Hardly,” Wylan interrupted. “Everything everyone else had been through—Nina and Matthias being soldiers at our age, Kaz growing up in a place like the Barrel—I haven’t been through anything. Nothing like that.”  
  
Jesper was quiet for a long moment. He had not loosened his hold on Wylan, and Wylan had made no move to separate himself from Jesper.  
  
Then, “I know your father tried to kill you.”  
  
Wylan’s mind went immediately to the events on the boat to Belendt. His father had paid men to try and kill him— _to_ kill him. He had believed that and held onto it for months. He had held it quiet inside himself, hadn’t dared tell. Hearing it from someone else felt different. Even his father had never stated it outright.  
  
“You mean what happened on Vellgeluk? I thought about that. He might’ve known Kaz was bluffing.”  
  
“No. I’m not talking about the men he paid to kill you. He wrote it in his ledger, the one he kept in the desk in the bedroom—it’s a code, but they’re not that complicated. I know. Saints, why didn’t you tell us? All those times Nina and I were on you for leaving home, why didn’t you tell us?”  
  
The answer seemed obvious to Wylan, yet the words came out shaky: “I didn’t want you to know. Working for the Dregs was the first time I felt—maybe not _accepted_ , but—I didn’t want you to make fun of me. He threw me away like I was nothing. Like I was garbage.”  
  
That was the part that hurt. Not that… it… hadn’t hurt, too, but the bruises on his body faded. The knowledge that his father had deemed him so absolutely worthless, that still stung. Knowing that, at the time, Jesper would have agreed, would have been right to agree…  
  
“I wouldn’t have done that,” Jesper said. “I thought you _chose_ the Barrel. I thought you could’ve gone home. The letters, they—they said you could come home. _If you’re reading this, then you know how much I wish to have you home_. That’s what they said. Is this why you haven’t played your flute? Because I teased you for it?”  
  
“I know you didn’t mean it that way,” Wylan said. Or maybe Jesper had meant it that way, once, but he wouldn’t anymore. “My flute… the sound isn’t right. It’s passable, but it’s not _right_. It has dents and rust. I wanted… I wanted to impress you.”  
  
“We’ll get you a new one. Then you’ll impress me properly.”  
  
That was all, just a busted flute! Feeling especially merciful, Jesper didn’t tell a single one of the jokes crowding in his mind, even though ‘flute’ was such a perfect euphemism.  
   
“They’re expensive.”  
  
“You’re rich.”  
  
“Not that rich.”  
  
“I’ve seen your bank papers. Yes, that rich. You could buy a dozen flutes as easily as an apple.”  
  
Wylan gnawed his thumb. Maybe he shouldn’t tell the whole truth now—wasn’t that what Jesper had asked for? But it could upset him. Wylan didn’t want to do or to say anything that could become an added stressor…  
  
He had hesitated too long.  
  
“It was Prior, Jes. The man you killed, he was the one who…”  
  
“ _Saints._ I knew he abused you, I didn’t—”  
  
“Please don’t say that. Please, it wasn’t _abuse_. Most of my life here was comfortable, really—I think I gave you the wrong impression—my father—”  
  
“What? Didn’t hit you? Didn’t insult you? Didn’t make you get on your knees and lick the floor?”  
  
“He… okay, he did, but…”  
  
“You know it’s wrong. You’re so afraid of your mother finding out because you know it would hurt her, too.”  
  
“But that wasn’t most of the time! Most of the time I was just a miserable kid. Yes, I pitied myself, but I’m ashamed of that now. When I think about people like Inej and Agata, what they went through, how can I possibly imagine I know anything about suffering?”  
  
Jesper didn’t tend to think about Inej’s past—he didn’t think she wanted him to. Presumably that was why she had never told him about it in more than the broadest strokes: she had been indentured in the Menagerie and Kaz convinced Per Haskell to buy the indenture and that’s how she joined the Dregs.  
  
Jesper wasn’t a fool. Inej didn’t tell him; he knew enough anyway. What happened to her was horrific beyond words.  
  
“Your papa was not allowed to hit you just because other kids were being raped.”  
  
The words were strangely ugly for Jesper, but that was exactly the point, wasn’t it? Hearing it laid so bare cut through the awkwardness in Wylan’s mind. It cut through the sense that something so terrible, so unspeakable had happened to them, how dare Wylan believe he had suffered?  
  
Such twisted logic, like there was some hierarchy, like one’s suffering had to be worse than others’ to matter.  
  
Wylan said, moving to sit up straight, “I’ve decided—I’m having a birthday party.”  
  
“Um… Wy… I’m absolutely delighted to help you have the best birthday party you’ve ever dreamed of, but I am concerned by how you came to that conclusion from what I just said.”  
  
Yes, that had been an awkward segue.  
  
Jesper had loosened his hold, but kept an arm around Wylan’s shoulders. Wylan settled against him.  
  
“You just reminded me how vulnerable children are here. Maybe it's true everywhere, but it shouldn’t be. Especially just because of how you were born. When I was working in the tannery I thought the absolute worst thing would be going back to my father. I told myself I didn’t have to. I’d sell myself first. But if I had been a girl, as naïve as I was, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. That’s—that’s _wrong_. It’s just wrong. And my father, a member of the Council, was making the laws and cheating people and—all he did to me. And he married Alys, and she’s barely older than I am! I don’t know the whole legal code of Kerch, I don’t know what he did, what else he… do you know how much wealth there is in Kerch? Just looking through our papers, ours alone, think of what we could do. We could open schools, we could regulate indentures—what if we put mediks in the Barrel? For people who can’t afford to pay on their own? Or, or invested in a Kerch Grisha school like the Ravkans? People shouldn’t have to be scared or sick or hurt, and the Merchant Council, we can change things. I’m all but guaranteed a seat, and I’ll be one of thirteen people who can change things, and the only one of those thirteen who has any idea what it’s like to go without.”  
  
Somewhere in there, Jesper thought, Wylan had gone from what they had the wealth for to what Kerch had the wealth for. He didn’t care. He was well sold on the notion. He remembered the look on Wylan’s face when he was tucking in Gavrie on the couch, or when he asked after Agata. Even before Kaz handed him his father’s empire, Wylan was thinking about other people when he could: the prisoners they took off the wagon in Fjerda, Kuwei, Alys. He hadn’t necessarily been good at it, but he tried. He cared. Seeing that sweet instinct forged into political steel…  
  
“And we’re starting with a birthday party,” Jesper said. Wylan’s face flooded red and Jesper hurriedly added, “I’m not teasing. You’ll need allies. We’ll start with the best birthday party this town has ever seen. Geldin District only, I can’t compete with the Barrel.”  
  
Wylan kissed his cheek.  
  
“Maybe next year we’ll compete with the Barrel, though, because you’re brilliant and gorgeous and I love you like crazy. We should go to Novyi Zem, too. Before you get too busy wooing merchers and taking up politics, I want you to visit Da.”  
  
“Of course, but, Jesper, any time you want to go home—if it’s about the fare, I—”  
  
“It’s not,” Jesper interrupted. He didn’t want to talk about his money—or lack thereof. “You’re not stupid, but your head is mixed up. You don’t know what’s supposed to be what. It’s not your fault, but I want you to spend more time with Da, to see what’s supposed to be. You can go on and save all of Kerch, just leave it to me to save you.”  
  
Wylan looked up at him and asked so earnestly, “Do I get to save you, too?” that Jesper just about melted. He forgot to think with his pride and say he didn’t need saving.  
  
“Yeah. Of course you do.”  
  
Jesper picked up the razor and the arsenic.  
  
“A few days ago, I found you here,” he said. “Were you… Wylan, that day…”  
  
“I wasn’t going to kill myself. I just hurt and this seemed like the place to go.”  
  
“I don’t want you to do that. If you feel like you need to come here, find me instead. I don’t want to control you like he did. I just need you to promise me this one thing.”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
Jesper nodded in pure confidence. Then, almost shyly, he asked, “Is that okay?”  
  
“It’s sweet.”  
  
Wylan looked at the things in Jesper’s hand. For so long, they lived like a promise in the back of his mind. It even helped sometimes. When things were bad, really bad, when his father looked at him with such anguish or contempt, Wylan told himself that if he couldn’t be better, he could at least stop their pain—his and his father’s. Sometimes he thought he would see his mama again. That she would be waiting, she would tell him it was okay. Sometimes he thought that maybe when he was gone, his father would remember him fondly, maybe even cry.  
  
He knew better. Wylan had seen dead bodies now. He knew it wouldn’t be clean, just like he knew his father wouldn’t care.  
  
Seeing his razor and arsenic in Jesper’s hand, Wylan knew for a fact that Jesper would cry if he found Wylan dead, and he wanted badly to prevent that. But it was more—Wylan didn’t just want to live to prevent Jesper from hurting, he wanted to live for Jesper. With Jesper. He wanted to live for himself and all the good he knew he could do for Ketterdam.  
  
“Will you do one more thing for me?”  
  
“Anything. Name it.”  
  
“Get rid of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to leave this up to you all. My instinct after this was to write a chapter that’s basically pure fluff, another “Jesper and Wylan cuddle in bed and talk about stuff” chapter—basically a rehash of this chapter, but light. I know I’ve written about a dozen of those. For me—yeah, that definitely happened, it is pretty much my favorite thing. As readers, would you like me to post that? Or go on to the next substantial chapter and skip the fluff?
> 
> EDIT: looks like you all enjoy fluff as much as I do, so I'll post that next <3


	36. Just Breathe

Neither Jesper nor Wylan seemed to find their footing the rest of the day, not after the truth had come out that Wylan had planned to kill himself and that Jesper knew Jan had tried to kill Wylan. Genetics and a desire to end Wylan’s life was apparently all the Van Eck men had in common.  
  
_Just genetics now,_ Jesper reminded himself. Jan could curse his son’s name while he rotted in prison for all Jesper cared.  
  
Things were just… awkward. Jesper didn’t know what to say, so he kept just looking at Wylan, and Wylan would catch him at it and not know what to say back. It wasn’t his proudest moment, but Jesper hoped Wylan was worrying about his own previous plans and had forgotten that Jesper almost called him stupid. That needed to be off-limits. Going forward, it _was_ off-limits. He could say that Wylan was short or under-freckled or clearly had no idea how to use his tongue in kissing. He could say those things. He could not and would not suggest Wylan was stupid.  
  
Neither of them had an easy night, either. Jesper had tried to tell jokes and Wylan had tried to laugh, but their hearts weren’t in it. There were matters to discuss, but… couldn’t they not? Just for a little while, Jesper wanted not to think about his ma calling him zowa but never telling him what that meant, or the twisted things Wylan’s father did. He just wanted to sleep.  
  
The next morning found Jesper sitting back against the headboard, drumming his fingers against his thighs. He glanced at Wylan. Still sound asleep. The light around the drapes had brightened. Morning was passably underway.  
  
Jesper sighed. He tossed an imaginary ball in the air and imaginary caught it, a game he used to play in church or the classroom or anywhere else he was expected to sit still. It wasn’t fun. Never had been. He gave another imaginary toss, another imaginary catch, another glance at Wylan.  
  
When Wylan woke up first, he waited for Jesper. Ever since the day Jesper woke to find him missing and couldn’t help thinking he had done something wrong, Wylan waited. Maybe if Jesper left, he could leave a message… except he wasn’t much of an artist, and a written message wouldn’t work.  
  
Jesper left the bed carefully, causing as little disturbance as possible. Maybe that would be enough to wake Wylan, he thought. Maybe by the time he was dressed, Wylan would be awake. Maybe, maybe… but Wylan kept on sleeping.  
  
Jesper picked up Wylan’s sketchbook. He turned to a blank page and tore it out, then cast one last look at Wylan, catching his face this time. He had expected a peaceful sleeping face. Instead he saw Wylan’s forehead wrinkled, shoulders pulled in.  
  
_Wylan…_  
  
Jesper sat back on the bed and stroked Wylan’s hair.  
  
Wylan flinched.  
  
“Shh, it’s okay,” Jesper soothed, keeping his voice low. He was glad Wylan had trusted him with his secret yesterday. Today, though, today he wished he could look at Wylan without thinking about it. “You’re safe now, Wylan. Everything is fine. You’re safe. Marya’s home and you have a boyfriend who loves you and he’s not going to let anything bad happen to you ever again. You are doing so well.”  
  
The worry had eased. Wylan’s shoulders relaxed, no longer tense like he expected a blow.  
  
Satisfied, Jesper took the novel he had been reading last night, one of Wylan’s pencils, and the spare piece of paper and slipped from the room.  
  
He couldn’t draw and Wylan couldn’t read, but Jesper could manage arrows at least. He tore off a small bit of paper and scratched an arrow into it, then tucked it under the runner so it wouldn’t be blown away. Each time he turned a corner, Jesper left another arrow, until there was a marked pathway all the way to the music room. From there he would be easy enough to find. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, especially when he was sprawled on the settee.  
  
Jesper remembered that night he, Wylan, and Inej had all squeezed onto the settee together, the night Wylan taught them to dance the minuet. He had known this was just a way station for Inej. That didn’t make it easier to think she might be leaving any day now, back to Ravka with her parents. He knew the plan was to hunt slavers, but he assumed she would see her family safely home first, maybe spend some much-deserved time with her parents.  
  
He had always known Inej was too good for the Dregs. He would miss her, but he had always known that.  
  
Was he? A Dreg? Too good?  
  
Jesper shook his head. None of this wondering did him any good, not when he could fall into Staas Stijn’s latest adventure, a wicked tale of murders, intrigue, demons. This one was especially gruesome, slashed throats and loads of stabbings, and it had the occasional steamy romance scene…  
  
The settee shifted, startling Jesper.  
  
“Good morning,” Wylan said.  
  
“Is it morning?” Jesper asked. “You slept so long I thought it might be Thursday.”  
  
Wylan laughed. “What was I supposed to do, wake up? I was dreaming about you.”  
  
“I hope you changed the sheets.”  
  
The confusion on Wylan’s face was almost too much for Jesper. He burst out laughing—that confusion was replaced with comprehension and a hot blush.  
  
“Just go back to your stupid book,” Wylan grumped, flopping onto his side with his head in Jesper’s lap. Jesper wanted to disagree, but he was perfectly happy to have Wylan here. He liked the position. The sulk he liked less.  
  
“Do you want me to read to you?” Jesper finally asked.  
  
“If you want. I’m comfortable here.”  
  
Jesper snorted. “You’d better be!”  
  
“What are you reading?”  
  
“ _The Five Tarts of West Stave_ , another Staas Stijn.”  
  
Jesper had told him a bit more about the tough and grizzled old detective, Stijn. Wylan didn’t much like the stories—far too gruesome for his liking—but Jesper offered to read, anyway.  
  
“Unless it’s about a bakery, no.”  
  
He almost asked. Then he snickered. “No, gorgeous, not that kind of tart.”  
  
“Then no.”  
  
“Thought so.”  
  
Although Wylan had learned to pull his weight with the Dregs, he didn’t like the violent stuff. He had seen it for himself and developed a keen distaste. Jesper still thought of a firefight as exciting. That did not mean his attention was on the book. Try as he might, he found his gaze drawn to the curly head in his lap.  
  
Jesper closed the book and set it aside. It was strange that someone like Stijn would interest him. After all, Jesper was the kind of guy Stijn would have tracked—a disproportionate number of the criminals he caught turned out to be Grisha, and Jesper _had_ run on the other side of the law. Maybe it was something about lawlessness in general that interested. Maybe the writing was just good.  
  
Maybe he didn’t care right now.  
  
“Jes?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You’re done reading?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Hold me? Please?”  
  
Wylan looked up at Jesper, sweet, imploring. He didn’t need to—the request was enough.  
  
“You didn’t have to wait until I was finished,” Jesper said.  
  
“It’s what a considerate partner does.”  
  
Jesper absolutely goggled. Had Wylan just… had _his_ _Wylan Van Eck_ just…?  
  
“Jesper? Did I say something wrong?” Wylan asked. Going from the open, innocent look on his face, he had no idea at all what he had said.  
  
With great difficulty, Jesper swallowed the urge to laugh. He wouldn’t spoil this moment—and, frankly, he didn’t want to explain to Wylan what those words meant. Not right now, anyway.  
  
“What, um, no. Of course not,” Jesper said, his voice just a touch higher than usual. “Sit up.”  
  
Jesper shifted his position before moving Wylan against him.  
  
“What—no,” Wylan objected, “I’m not sitting between your legs!”  
  
“I thought you wanted to cuddle.”  
  
“I do! I do, but that’s… suggestive. What if someone were to walk in?”  
  
“On what? We’re both fully clothed and this is the best way to cuddle on the settee.”  
  
Wylan hesitated only a moment longer. Then he scooted closer and leaned against Jesper. He really was afraid of people walking in on them, Jesper realized. Wylan was technically leaning against Jesper, but he was tense and breathing shallowly.  
  
Jesper wrapped an arm around Wylan and kissed his hair.  
  
“It’s okay. We’re not doing anything wrong.”  
  
“I know that.”  
  
Trying to talk him out of a panic was pointless. Instead, Jesper held Wylan and focused on keeping his own breathing steady, like a guide. Wasn’t that what Wylan always said when Jesper got worked up? Just breathe? So he kept a decidedly steady rhythm against Wylan’s back until, slowly, Wylan began to breathe, and he began to rest against Jesper. Something in Jesper eased, too. This was what they should be.   
  
“That’s better, isn’t it?” Jesper asked.  
  
“Yeah. Thank you, Jes.”  
  
“I don’t think you appreciate how often I want to hold you,” Jesper replied. “You might as well thank me for being handsome.”  
  
“Thank you for being handsome.”  
  
“You’re very welcome, gorgeous.”  
  
“How’s the book?”  
  
Jesper knew Wylan didn’t care for the Stijn novels, but appreciated his asking all the same. “Stijn is drinking more than he should, so he’s not paying much attention to the case and one of the murders was worse. He figures it’s to get his attention.”  
  
“West Stave girls?”  
  
Jesper nodded. “Yes.”  
  
“You know that book only proves my point.”  
  
He snorted. “You think everything proves your point.”  
  
“About the West Stave girls! Someone _killed_ a girl just because Stijn wasn’t paying him enough attention. How often do the unaffiliated girls and boys wind up dead in those stories?”  
  
Now that he asked, Jesper realized quite often. They were—well, cannon fodder. Wylan seemed on the cusp of another speech, which was adorable given his position on his boyfriend’s lap, but Jesper took away the pressure anyway: “You’re right, the books don’t treat West Stave girls—it’s usually the girls—well at all. Though it is only a story. You’re thinking of how to help them, aren’t you?”  
  
“Trying.”  
  
“My sweet revolutionary.”  
  
The Merchant Council was going to hate him. Destroy him? Jesper hoped not. He imagined they might try, but if Wylan built enough of a base of allies before he started letting on to everyone that he wanted to wash the true filth out of Ketterdam, if he was strong enough, if Jesper could protect him…  
  
“When I was with the Dregs…”  
  
“Kaz,” Wylan interrupted. Just hearing that name, somehow, it was a jolt to Jesper’s heart, but Wylan took Jesper’s hand in his and pressed a kiss to his knuckles three times. “It’s okay. We can talk about him.”  
  
“Well, with Kaz,” Jesper amended. Wylan had only been half the reason Jesper didn’t use the name. The other reason was Jesper. It was just… easier. “I was always looking for some sign. I knew it was dumb, but I always read into whatever he did—that somehow he was telling me I was more. That he didn’t pick me for a job because I was the best shot, he picked me because I’m _me_. Kaz… wasn’t in love with me, but I was in love with him.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“I know you are. That’s one thing I like about you. You don’t make me earn it.”  
  
“I’m not sure that’s true,” Wylan said. “Maybe not _earn_ , but you certainly deserve it. I like you next to me, and that’s because I like you. I like how you think for yourself, not by what other people say. I like that you always find a joke to tell. You don’t let situations get the best of you. You’re always smiling because you’re smart and you find the humor in everything, it’s just one way you’re stronger than what goes on around you. I wish I could be that way. I need a reason to smile.”  
  
Jesper doubted it. Sure, Wylan was a more serious person than Jesper—not a difficult title to earn, he would admit.  
  
Still—“You smile for no reason sometimes.”  
  
“Oh, Jes,” Wylan said, shaking his head gently. “When you don’t see the reason I’m smiling, it’s you.”  
  
“See what I meant about not making me earn it?” Jesper asked with a grin.  
  
Kaz _never_ would have said something like that, any of that. He never would have said he just liked having Jesper around or that Jesper made him smile. A compliment from Kaz was something like, _You’re my best sharpshooter,_ or, _You’re missed around the Slat.  
  
_Kaz never would have given him that, but Wylan did. Maybe it was part of the wound inside him that Jesper had wanted it so badly from Kaz, but hearing that from Wylan made him feel warm and calm.  
  
“See what I meant about you deserving it?” Wylan retorted. “Remember when I said we were both broken?”  
  
“That’s not especially romantic, but yes.”  
  
“I think it makes us good together. The past few days—there’s so much pain, but you soothe my hurts and I help with yours. Our jagged edges fit.”  
  
That was absurd, but it almost sounded insightful coming from Wylan. Sometimes he was so cute, Jesper forgot he was also… well…  
  
“You’re a whole lot of crazy, sunshine.”  
  
“Maybe,” Wylan allowed, resettling himself, “but I’m not wrong.”  
  
“And you’re as smart as I am handsome.”  
  
Jesper was perfectly aware of what he was doing by linking those two. He knew Wylan was desperately attracted to him—and who wouldn’t be? He also knew Wylan wouldn’t say anything shy of glowing about him, not outside a joke.  
  
“Cheater,” Wylan murmured, proving Jesper’s point. He shifted himself just enough to look up at Jesper as he said, “Hey, beautiful.”  
  
“Easy there, that’s my line,” Jesper objected, amused by Wylan taking his compliment.  
  
“May I borrow it?”  
  
“I suppose I can trust you with it… but I’ll have to charge interest.”  
  
Wylan laughed and pushed himself up enough to kiss Jesper’s jaw. Just a down payment.  
  
“You’re going to take care of that line.”  
  
“I’ll feed it every day and take it for walks along the canal! Wait, what happens if I don’t take care of it?”  
  
At first, Jesper wasn’t sure what Wylan was getting at. “What do you mean?”  
  
“You know… if I _don’t_ feed it every day… if it’s returned in poor condition…”  
  
Oh. _Oh_! So, the merchling wanted to play that game, did he?  
  
“Then I guess I’ll take you prisoner and never let you go.”  
  
Wylan cackled like a penny play henchman. “You’ll never see that line again.”  
  
“You cruel, cruel man. You hardened criminal. To think I trusted you!”  
  
Wylan scoffed. “Remind me again how we met.”  
  
Jesper remembered how they met quite well. He remembered the terrified lost boy clinging to a scraping paddle like he was holding on for dear life—it was only now he realized Wylan might have thought he was. He remembered thinking Kaz had lost his mind to invest in a mouse like that.  
  
“I don’t recall _you_ being the hardened criminal in that situation,” Jesper said.  
  
“I was well on my way,” Wylan protested.  
  
Jesper grew up a practical way in Novyi Zem, he grew up surrounded by useful skills to learn and sensible advice. He had, in a way, grown up Kaelish as well. He was raised by the stories of the Saints, but he was raised by Kaelish superstition, too, just as practical as splitting wood.  
  
He thought about that as he laughed and objected, “Wy…”  
  
“I was!”  
  
“Wy.”  
  
Jesper knew to be careful what he wished for. He knew wishes could be powerful.  
  
“I’m good at demo!”  
  
“Who’s Mark, Wy?”  
  
As Wylan laughed and turned just enough to half-bury his bright red face against Jesper’s chest, Jesper couldn’t help thinking that, this time, he had wished right.


	37. Epilogue

“Good night, Elke.”  
  
“Good night. Thank you for inviting me! I had a wonderful time!”  
  
“Thank you for joining me. It wouldn’t have been the same without you.”  
  
Wylan would have said it anyway. He saw the way Elke Marie Smit worried her lip and darted her eyes around the room like she didn’t know where to look, he saw how lost she felt, but she was loud in her lostness, too. Funny, sometimes, not always, but well-meaning.  
  
“And I hope you like my gift. No one knew what you wanted. No one really _knows_ you.”  
  
_Someone does,_ Wylan thought, but he smiled for Elke. “By next year, you will.”  
  
“Oh, I hope so!”  
  
“Elke,” muttered Maryse Schenck.  
  
Jesper had referred to Maryse and Elke as _your first true conquests_. Wylan wished he hadn’t, the phrasing was so horribly embarrassing! But it was true. They were two of the girls who had gone a bit glassy-eyed about him outside church that day. Maryse had even snuck out to come to the party!  
  
“Elke, let’s go, Papa will be furious if he catches me.”  
  
Wylan listened closely to those words, but he judged there was no true fear in them. He would have needed to approach Schenck very differently if he believed his daughter truly feared him.  
  
Elke said one final goodbye to Wylan before letting her friend tug her, giggling, out the door.   
  
Wylan smiled and waved at them. Then he pushed the door shut and slumped against it, exhausted. What an evening—and night! The party had been glorious. There had been music and dancing and cake (“Pretty good, for something that isn’t waffles”).   
  
He hadn’t known there was so much to know about chocolate, hadn’t considered it before, not until Wylan and Jesper had stayed up late into the night talking about Kerch-Zemeni relations and why there was growing tension between the Zemeni and the Ravkans and Fjerdans. It helped Wylan negotiate a shipping contract with a Zemeni-owned company that produced cacao without exploitation—a challenging product to sell, since the cost was higher, but worth the challenge. And with this new knowledge, Wylan could actually feel good about his birthday cake, in addition to enjoying the taste.  
  
It was the smiling that wore him out. And the dancing. Wylan had danced with just about everyone—mostly girls, a few especially daring boys, and of course the most daring and handsome boy.

Inej hadn’t joined them. She was gone, to Ravka with her parents to see her family, meet her cousin’s new wife. They all knew it was temporary. Inej and the Wraith had greater work to do. Wylan had invited Kaz and secretly hoped he might make an appearance, but was unsurprised to be disappointed.  
  
Wylan rolled his shoulders and made his way back to the ballroom. He had a _ballroom_. Until tonight, he would have deemed it the most useless room in the mansion. He hadn’t thought much about it until the day after they met with Breen and the Black Tips. Then Wylan mentioned it because he thought Jesper might laugh, and it was worth it for the way Jesper’s eyes lit up at the prospect so many suggestive jokes.  
  
Wylan still thought the ballroom was stupid. It wasn’t like a linen closet—which was dull, yes, but very practical. At least, it was impractical until the time came for a party.  
  
It was over now, the party. Wylan wasn’t entirely sorry. He was exhausted and he felt bruised, but he wasn’t sorry.  
  
The night had been dizzying. He remembered talking. He remembered laughing. He remembered realizing he was neglecting Jesper and making up for it by kissing him so deeply he just about clambered into his lap—Wylan had been embarrassed, but Jesper had looked giddy, the way he usually did after a fight. And everyone understood then. Yes, a few of the girls continued flirting—Wylan thought they were just being nice but Jesper insisted it was flirting—but they toned down their attentions.  
  
“Jes?”  
  
Jesper looked to Wylan, drained a flute of champagne, and said, “So? Good?”  
  
Wylan smiled wearily. He was exhausted, but he was happy. “It was great. Thank you.”  
  
Jesper held out his hand.  
  
Apparently the booze was good. Wylan had trusted Jesper’s taste on the matter. Jesper, as it turned out, was utterly comfortable planning a party. It was just Wylan who created difficulties.  
  
_No one knows what you like to eat.  
  
Anything. Whatever you like._  
  
Wylan tried to avoid the question, but when Jesper pinned him down about it, he had squirmed and finally admitted he just _didn’t know_. It was hard to explain. It was like he hadn’t been alive here. He hadn’t enjoyed things, he hadn’t really experienced them. Admitting it—well, it was embarrassing. Wylan used to think he knew anything about misery. But Jesper hadn’t teased him, just kissed him and promised they would find out what he liked in a tone that made Wylan squirm in an entirely different way.   
  
Wylan crossed the room and put his hand in Jesper’s. Jesper pulled him close.  
  
“Happy birthday, Wylan.”  
  
“It doesn’t feel like a birthday. It feels like… the beginning of my life.”  
  
“Not to be a podge, but that is literally a birthday.”  
  
Wylan laughed. “Then it feels like I’ve never had one before. I feel… Ghezen, I feel alive.”  
  
They fit here perfectly, two boys holding each other close in a ballroom wrecked by a long overdue birthday party.   
  
Wylan swayed. He reached out to steady himself, but Jesper’s arm was around his waist first, keeping him from falling. They both laughed, neither certain why.  
  
“Time for bed, birthday boy.”  
  
Wylan blushed but didn’t argue. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect end to today than falling asleep in Jesper’s arms. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect end to any day.  
  
Giggling and leaning on each other, unsteady from a mix of laughter, tiredness, and wine, they made their way upstairs to their shared bedroom.  
  
“Thank you, Jesper,” Wylan said as they stumbled into the bedroom.  
  
Jesper made a vague noise of agreement.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
Wylan hold onto Jesper by the front of his shirt, going up on tiptoe to kiss him.  
  
“Thank you for my perfect birthday.”  
  
“Thank you for my perfect boyfriend.”  
  
Wylan was too dizzy, too tired and happy now to balance well on tiptoe, and had to break off the kiss soon enough.   
  
He stepped away to change. When he came out of the closet, Wylan found Jesper looking at a package on Wylan’s pillow. It was tidily wrapped in brown paper, with a familiar mark stamped in dark blue ink.  
  
The tiredness drained out of Wylan, replaced by adrenaline, by shock, by… by _this!_  
  
Wylan looked from the package to Jesper.   
  
Jesper shook his head.   
  
“Jes… did you… is that a Maksimov?” Wylan asked, brushing the wrapping gently. He had forgotten now. He had forgotten to be tired, the flute crackling energy through him.  
  
“I don’t even know what a Maksimov is. Aside from Ravkan.”  
  
Snapping his attention back to his boyfriend, Wylan said, “Right—sorry, he’s an artist. He makes instruments, but not just any instruments. The lead clarinetist in the royal orchestra of Ahmrat Jen once crossed Maksimov, so Maksimov refused to make him a clarinet. The emperor had him executed.”  
  
“Maksimov?”  
  
“No, the clarinetist, for degrading the sound of the orchestra. There’s nothing that compares with a Maksimov. Rumor is he’s Grisha. Or Sainted.”  
  
As he spoke, Wylan had begun to pet the box, not realizing he was doing it. The gift was cradled in his lap like a baby.  
  
“Wy. Open the box.”  
  
Wylan nodded. He slipped a finger under the wrapping and eased it open. As it revealed a distinctively patterned box, Wylan stopped breathing. He removed what was undeniably a flute case, not daring to let himself believe it might actually be…  
  
He unlatched the case.   
  
“Ghezen and all his works…”  
  
Wylan gazed at the flute like it was the first he’d ever seen. His old flute had been through the wringer—busted and not properly cleaned in months, it long since needed replacing. It basically worked but it needed replacing. But this wasn’t so much a flute as a brand new piece of art. The light seemed to skate across the metal, glittering over the keys.   
  
“Oh, there’s a note,” Jesper said, although they both knew who had brought this. “‘Put better locks on your windows.’”  
  
Wylan looked down at the flute. Kaz had been here, in their bedroom. Kaz, who never showed a shred of kindness, only what had been earned five times over. A part of him couldn’t help thinking about how Jesper wanted Kaz in his bedroom, but Wylan pushed the thought away. Jesper was here with him. That mattered more.  
  
“Wylan?”  
  
He felt like something else controlled his hands as he carefully removed each piece, muscle memory and hope and the only joy he had known before the past few months. It was habit to wipe them down with the polishing cloth even as they already gleamed, to blow away imaginary specks of dust. The pad of his thumb ghosted over the embouchure hole before he twisted together the body and headjoint. They barely needed his touch to slide together. The foot moved just as easily. This flute wanted to be assembled.  
  
It wanted…  
  
He wanted…  
  
Wylan nearly shivered looking at the beautiful instrument in his hands.  
  
“Play me something, gorgeous.”  
  
“Oh, I-I couldn’t…”  
  
“It’s not just for looking at.”  
  
Wylan looked at Jesper, then carefully brought the flute to his lips. Wylan thought about saying something… he wanted to. He wanted to say, _please don’t laugh at me._ Too much in his history said that anyone would. But he looked at Jesper one more time. Jesper was expectant, encouraging, a little vague from too much to drink.  
  
Wylan straightened his shoulders. Holding a Maksimov was beyond a dream, having one for his own…  
  
He took a deep breath and began to play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The... end... *collapses*
> 
> Joking aside, thank you for reading and especially to those of you who have taken the time to review. Reviews are basically my lifeblood and on occasion the thing that keeps me sane on a really stressful day.


End file.
